


across the sea and back again.

by sailorshadzter



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, GoT au, an alternate to seasons 6-8, jon x sansa - Freeform, jonsa, jonsa au, jonsa goes to essos, robb stark but not like you think
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 07:22:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23847379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailorshadzter/pseuds/sailorshadzter
Summary: post season 6 au:when sansa finds jon at castle black, he knows she'll never be safe there. together, they flee to essos, where there they can live in secret, without fear. until one day, someone arrives at their doorstep and begs them to return north, to take back what is theirs. upon learning of their littlest brother's capture by ramsay bolton, jon and sansa decide to leave the life they've built for themselves there in essos to return north and save their home and their brother.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 55
Kudos: 149





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this was meant to be a oneshot  
> & then a 2 part fic.  
> & now im thinking it will be 5 chapters long by the end.
> 
> it's an au, meaning details & events will be changed to fit the narrative of the story. :)

As the ship steers away from the dock, he spares only one last glance at the place he's known all of his life. The North will grow small in the distance, but he turns his back to it. He cannot watch the cold shores disappear from his sight, instead, he will remember them as they look then: cold, frozen, but home.

Instead, he turns to face down the deck to where she stands, quietly watching the Northern shores fade from view. She must feel his gaze upon her for she shifts, blue eyes finding gray, and she smiles; this was home now. He approaches her as she tucks her lovely red hair beneath her hood, turning back as the boat rocks them on the cold sea. A hand to her elbow, he steadies her, reminded yet again that she's never sailed before. "Let's go down below," he suggests, and though she seems hesitant at first, she follows after him only a few moments later, casting one final glance back at the place they're both leaving behind.

Though it is still chilly below the deck, it is dry and they are free from the frosty wind and splashes of ice cold sea water. Even now as he looks at her in the lantern light, he sees her skirts are damp and she's shivering. "Here," he swings his furs from his shoulders and drapes them over hers, shaking his head when she opens her mouth to protest. "I told you I would keep you safe." His hand falls into place over her shoulder, a light grip, a comforting touch that sends warmth through her entire being.

Time seems to stand still, as it always does when Jon gets so close; why does she wish he would get closer? "Where will we go?" An echo of the words they had shared only a few nights ago. His hand falls from her shoulder and she feels uncertain without the slight grip of his fingertips.

Jon smiles, settling upon the single bed in the cabin. "To Lys." It is a place where it is not about a family name, it is a place where hired swords guard the gates and the most powerful men are the richest ones. He's heard the rumors of the place- beautiful people, the blood of old Valyria still running through even merchant veins. On one hand, they might stick out, but across the Narrow Sea, no one will know them. No one will find them.

Not ever.

"I have heard they love music in Lys," she is not afraid because she is a Stark, no matter where she goes, she will always be the blood of Winterfell, she will always be Eddard and Catelyn Stark's daughter. She crosses the swaying floor to settle onto the bed at his side, their shoulders brushing as she shifts so she might face him. "Will we be happy?" She asks, softer still, her only real fear. The nightmare of a life she's lived all these years disappears behind her, but the future of the one she has now remains uncertain.

Without a doubt, he nods. "I'll make sure of it," he vows, hand over hers, warm and strong. She smiles and leans into him, head to shoulder, hands still yet clasped together upon her thigh. "I promise, Sansa..."

And she believes him.

[ x x x ]

He wakes in the night, the ship swaying beneath him.

Sansa sleeps, curled against him beneath the furs on the bed, one hand tucked beneath the curve of her ivory cheek. He rolls so he can face her, his gaze adjusting to the darkness of the cabin, listening to the sound of her soft breathing as she sleeps. Complicated as they may be, the feelings rushing through him bring him a sense of warmth, a sense of comfort. He draws a hand from beneath the covers, fingers tracing along the length of her jaw, sharpened by her days of pain and hunger, but no longer darkened with bruises left behind.

"I'll keep you safe," he whispers into the dark, eyes closing as the sway of the ship and the soft sound of her breathing lulls him back to sleep.

[ x x x ]

Lys is a bustling city, full of far more people than King's Landing or the North ever was.

Jon finds them a small, modest cottage that sits along the outskirts of the town, surrounded by fruit trees. He takes up a job as a hired sword for the gate, though he has traded Longclaw in for a blade that is not as recognizable. Though he insists she needn't do so, Sansa sews the finest gowns for Lys' most powerful noble houses- silks, lawns, laces- fetching a living that will after a time certainly surpass his. The truth was, she enjoys the work.

When she isn't sewing gowns, she tends to the garden that sits out back behind the cottage. She's never done such a thing as this and there's not much more she enjoys than hearing Jon's chuckle when she comes inside, dirt smudged on her cheeks, skirts tied up around her knees. Time passes, days into weeks, weeks into months... In Lys, she lives differently, she lives freely, without the contraints of etiquette, without the fear of violence or abuse. Here in Lys, she lives as Jon promised... She lives happy.

 _They_ live happy.

[ x x x ]

"Do you want a family?"

The question comes when they've been living in Lys for several months.

Jon looks up from where he sits, peeling lemons at their table while she stirs batter in a bowl. Sansa had never cooked a day in her life until they came to Lys, but like with most things, she was good at it. "A family?" He asks, both surprise and confusion settling into place, heavy like a cloak. His heart beat quickens, surprising him even more than the question she's asked. "I have a family."

She makes a face, shaking her head. "You know what I mean," she shoots back, setting the bowl she holds down onto the table as she stares at him with those big blue eyes. "A wife... Children..." She thinks of the children she's always imagined for herself, a boy she might call Robb and a girl that looks of Arya. As always, her heart aches at the thought of the siblings left behind, the family she's lost back in the North; the only thing she misses from the life left in the North. She thinks of them, the little siblings she never found, Arya and Rickon and Bran, she hopes they forgive her for leaving. She hopes they're alive.

For a long moment, he studies her face, Stark colored eyes finding blue. He rises up from where he sits, chair scraping the floor, his hand warm when it falls over hers. "I have a famiy, Sansa," he says again, offering her a smile as he squeezes his hand on hers. "I have you."

_I have you._

His words echo inside of her mind, the meaning behind them giving rise to a wave of emotion that she must blink away. "Jon..." His name is a whisper on her lips and suddenly, there is no distance between them. The breath catches in her throat, her heart beat skipping as she feels his arm wrap around her. He's warm and he tastes of lemons when his thumb brushes across her lower lip, the gesture sending shivers racing the length of her spine. Once, these feelings welling up within her left her feeling shamed, for he's her brother, albeit half, but their father's blood is one and the same.

And yet...

Here in Lys, no one knows them. There would be no one to shame them for the nature of their relationship. For once in her life, she is free to love as she wishes- to make a choice for herself without fear, without worry. So she kisses him. And when she feels Jon's lips press back against hers, she knows this is the right choice.

He was always the right choice.

[ x x x ]

It's the middle of the night and she stands at the window that overlooks the sea, which roars in the distance, the only light that of the moon in the sky above. Sometimes, in moments such as these, she truly misses the North. Winter had yet to find them in Essos, but she wonders if there will come a time where she will feel again the sting of the cold wind. She wonders if someday, she might again step into the blinding brilliance of pure white snow. To her surprise, tears fill her eyes and she closes them, recalling how once she had thought she would never feel cold again. That day... When she had escaped to find Jon, running through the frozen forest in just a thin gray cloak, she had been so cold that day. She'd have frozen to death, surely, if Theon had not found that old mare that took her the distance to Castle Black.

Those days... They were so long ago and yet... Sometimes, even now, they feel as if they had only just been yesterday. The truth was, she was only awake because she'd been dreaming of that forest again, running for her life through the trees, the howl of a wolf chasing behind her. But she had not been running for Castle Black in this dream, but to Winterfell. Now that she's awake she feels strangely empty... As if there was a piece of her missing.... As if...

"Come to bed, won't you wife?"

Sansa jumps at the voice, but she's smiling when she turns around to face him where he lays beneath the sheet on their bed. They've been married four months now, but she's not quite certain she'll ever grow accustomed to hearing him call her _wife_. "I'm coming..." She murmurs, turning back to the window for only a moment more before she crosses the room and slips back into his arms. "I was dreaming..." She sighs against him, settling into place beside him with ease.

"Of what?" His breath is warm against her as he rolls closer, brushing his lips across her bare shoulder, teeth breaking the soft skin of her throat as a hand encloses a breast.

"Home."

The single word draws him back from her, it's meaning more than what it sounds like. "The North," his tenor vocals catch and he closes his eyes, as if it is too painful for him to think of what they left behind. "I miss it, too." He admits, settling back onto his side of the bed, though his palm remains where it was, her heartbeat a tattoo against his skin. We could go back, he wants to say, but he knows the truth, they can never go back. Not while the Lannister's still live, not when Ramsay Bolton still holds the North. She would never be safe there and so in Essos they must stay, no matter how badly either of them wished to go back. He had to keep her safe, it was all that mattered to him.

She turns into him, rekindling his motions from moments before, her mouth finding his as a hand threads through his dark curls. This is home now, she thinks as Jon moves between her legs, a warm hand pressing against the soft skin of her inner thigh. His mouth moves from hers and finds its place against her ear, his whisper warm against the shell of her ear. "I'm always home when I'm with you."

He was right...

Home was wherever they were together.

[ x x x ]

The first morning she wakes ill, she knows not what ails her.

But then a second morning follows, a third, even a fourth. By then she knows, by then she's come to see the other signs that came along with the morning sickness. Her breasts feel heavy and tender to the touch, so much so that even Jon's soft hands had caused her a new sort of torment just two nights before. Though the illness passes by the afternoon, she's left tired and irritable for the rest of the day, falling into a deep sleep each night with ease. Jon notices, but she says it's nothing, because she knows what could happen yet in these early days.

And so she keeps her secret tucked against her heart, if only for a few weeks more.

[ x x x ]

She's piecing together her latest dress order when Jon comes through the door, his boots heavy on the floor, a bowl of freshly picked fruit in his hands. "Welcome home," she greets with a mouthful of pins, various pieces of dark blue fabric placed around her, ready to be sewn together.

Jon stops where he stands, taking in the sight of her there, a smile curving on his lips. Sometimes, even now, he has to remind himself that she's real, that she's his. "Busy, sweetheart?" He asks as she approaches, settling down on his hunches just outside the circle of fabric that surrounds her only after setting the fruit aside on the table. "Ah, for Lady Rogare," he observes, noting the quality of the rich blue colored silk, a favorite fabric and color of the noble lady, one of Sansa's more notable customers. "You only just finished the yellow one for her." Sansa grins, pulling the last of the pins from her mouth, slipping it into place where a sleeve meets bodice, keeping it together until she actually sews it later.

"She was quite pleased with it," Sansa explains, thinking back to the delight the woman had shown at the sight of the yellow damask gown she had made most recently. "So pleased in fact, she ordered several more." Though long hours it would take her for each one, Sansa loves creating the elaborate gowns the Lys women enjoy, far different from the gowns of the North or even King's Landing. Daring and bold, the women only wore the lightest of fabrics in a vast array of colors- gowns in every color one could imagine, gowns Sansa's younger self only could have imagined existed.

Rising up to his full height, he reaches out his hand for her to take, helping her back onto her own feet that ache from her hours on the floor. "You're going to be kept quite busy," he remarks, leading her towards the table and helping her into a chair. She grins, thinking about the news she still yet holds onto. Busy indeed, she thinks with a chuckle that does not go unnoticed. "What's funny?" He turns back to her, brow arching as he peers down at her where she sits.

Somehow, this is the moment she's been waiting for.

"I have something to tell you," she says, standing back up so she might face him, reaching out to take his hand in hers.

His heart has begun to beat fast, as if deep down, he knows everything is about to change.

"I'm with child."

The breath stolen from his lungs, the world spins much too fast for a moment, and it is Sansa that guides him into the chair she had just vacated. "Are you certain?" He gulps when he finds his voice several moments later, his eyes wide as he stares up at her. At his expense, Sansa laughs, drawing his hand towards her, pressing his palm against the still yet flat plane of her abdomen.

Then she nods.

Just like that, the world seems clearer, brighter, as if this was what he's been waiting to hear all of his life. He jumps back to his feet and wraps her in his arms, happiness a warm surge through his every limb. "A babe..." He whispers, her laughter mixing with tears as he pulls her as close as he dares, relishing in the softness of her. "A babe of our own..." He draws back, just so he might look her in the face, his joy and shock evident by the expression he wears. "When?"

"Seven months, I'd say," she says, the best guess she can make in the timeline. "Around the time of Arya's nameday." Jon's smile returns and then he's pulling her back into an embrace, breathing her in, his body humming with the happiness that runs through him.

He's not certain any man deserves to be this happy, but he accepts it all the same.

[ x x x ]

"What shall we name him?"

They lay in bed together, the darkness closing in as the moon hides behind a stubborn cloud cover. "Him? It could be a girl, you know." Jon reminds her as he drums his fingers along the swell of her belly. But she shrugs, ever certain that it will be a son that comes in the next few weeks. "What do you wish to name him?" Jon flips the question back at her and she makes a face.

"I asked you first."

Jon chuckles as the babe moves beneath his touch, as if they can feel their father's hand through Sansa's skin. "Well... I did always think myself with a son I would name Robb." He would be a strong boy with the Stark looks, a boy that would roam with wolves and honor his family beyond all else. "And daughters, I thought I might have a handful of beautiful girls." He pictures those girls differently than he once did- for now he sees them born of her, with vibrant red hair and eyes the color of the summer sky.

Settling back against her pillows, she smiles, lost in the images he paints for her; a first born son clinging to her skirts, a second one in her arms, while a daughter grows in her belly. She can think of them all; the first a miniature version of Jon, with the Stark looks his namesake always wished he had. The second son would be a mixture of Tully and Stark, though more like his father in attitude. Their first born daughter would be little of her besides temper, a little dark haired girl that will steal Jon's heart. It would be their fourth child, another girl, that Sansa knows will come someday when they least expect her, but she will be their Tully redhead. She cannot explain it, but she knows these children will come to them, one by one, until their family is complete.

"Robb," she finally says, realizing that she's lost herself in thought, silence falling between them as Jon leans his head against her stomach, their babe twisting in the uncomfortable space that surely her womb has become.

That night she dreams of the godswood and giggling children. Beneath the heart tree, a foursome plays, a mix of dark and red hair, two boys and two littler girls. Four wolf pups play among them, a perfect pack, a little family.

When she wakes, she’s smiling. 

[ x x x ]

The day Robb is born, she dreams of Winterfell again.

It's lost to her, in the chaos that is labor, but when it is all done and she's propped up in bed, the infant in the crook of her arm, fast asleep, she remembers. "He will be King in the North," she whispers, leaning over the babe to press a kiss to his forehead. Jon laughs softly, for they both know it can never be true. Too tired to argue, Sansa only leans in closer, watching as Jon reaches out a gentle hand, fingertips brushing the soft head of dark hair their son has, a smile twitching on his lips. "Is it fair... For us to be so happy?" She asks softly, afraid to believe that this happiness could last. After everything they had been through, after everything that had led them to this moment, after all they had left behind... Was it right for them to find happiness like this?

Jon turns to her, one hand still on his son's head, the other reaching out to touch her cheek. "Of all people who deserve to be this happy... It's you, my love." His words are soft, they are the truth. Tears fill her eyes and she closes them against the emotions rising up within her, the smallest of smiles curving on her lips. "This is what I wanted for you," he leans in, brushing her mouth with his, gentle, tender, loving. "This sort of happiness is what I wanted you to have." A tear escapes and he catches it with his thumb.

Sansa lets out a deep breath and she nods; there was no way she could ever feel happier than this.

[ x x x ]

Robb is four months old when there comes a knock to their door.

It's the middle of the day and while the baby sleeps in his cradle, Sansa is sewing the last touches of a gown. Jon sits across the room at the table, sharpening the sword he's carried since taking the job as a hired swordsman. They exchange a quick glance, though it's not abnormal for such a thing to happen, there is something that feels strange about this knock.

Returning his sword to its sheath, casting aside his sharpening tools so he can rise up from where he sits, crossing the room to open the door. At the door is a woman, but a woman like he's never seen before. She's taller than any man he's ever met, dressed in armor of a Northern style, heavyweight for the weather of Lys. There's a sword strapped to her hip and another young man hovers just behind her in the yard, watching the scene unfold with a surprised gaze- as if he cannot believe what he's seeing. Before Jon can open his mouth to speak, Sansa is there, peering at the woman with wide eyes, an expression of true shock on her face. "Lady Sansa... It's you..." The woman whispers, tears filling her bright blue eyes as she falls to her knees. "I've been searching for you, all this time Lady Sansa..."

There was always hope, despite the doubt that nagged at her over the course of the last several months. There was always hope that she would find her, even when the rest of the world believed her dead. As she should have been- the price upon her head was higher than most criminals. Believed to be a participant in Joffrey's death, the Lannister queen swore a handsome prize for any man that brought Sansa Stark to her. And then of course there was Ramsay Bolton, who needed his Stark bride to solidify his stolen place at Winterfell. Though his price was not that of the Lannister's, it certainly was a sum that would keep many families supported in the coming winter months. But after the first six months of her vanishing from Winterfell, people could only assume she had perished in the cold forest, her body certainly to be found when the spring thaw came.

But Brienne had believed... She had believed she would find her.

And so she had traveled across the North, following any lead, any rumor that spread about Sansa's whereabouts. Eventually, the rumors quieted, and still she went on, knowing she could never give up her search. It wasn't until a second trip to White Harbor that she made a choice to get on a ship and sail for Essos, no reason to it except something tells her it's the right choice to make.

The ship lands in Lorath and she spends three months combing the city for any sign, any rumor, anything at all that will tell her that Sansa is there. But three months in and she's left no stone unturned in the port city, checking even the brothels to find her lady. It wasn't until she's walking through the main market that she overhears something interesting. "...That dressmaker in Lys!" A woman is saying, smiling as she sways her skirts back and forth to show off the detail in the glimmering fabric. "Isn't it lovely? She's quite talented, my father paid for three more for me!" Brienne listened for several seconds more, though the conversation turned and there was nothing else she could learn from eavesdropping.

However, that single piece of information proved quite fruitful, for after an inquiry at a local merchant, she learned more about the Lys dressmaker. Enough that she sets out for Lys that very next morning, finding herself at the door of the small cottage where the dressmaker lives. And it's her... It's her... After all this time... It was her.

"You must come home," she speaks, staring up into the face of the young woman, who's blue eyes peer back at her, still wide in her ivory features. "The North needs you." As if these words knock some sense into her, she shakes her head, turning away as if she means to end the conversation. "Please, Lady Sansa..." Sansa pauses, shifting back ever so slightly, lids sweeping closed over blue eyes, a hand curling into a fist at her side.

"I can't go back." Sansa finally speaks, turning back to face the lady knight. She thinks back to that first time she met Brienne of Tarth, who had tried to get her to come with her back then, offering her protection from the world around her. But, Sansa had trusted in Littlefinger and went to her marriage with Ramsay Bolton, a decision she knows she will regret until her final breath. Jon is at her elbow then, his touch steadying her where she stands; as always, it is him that brings her comfort. "I'm sorry you've gone out of your way to find me here, but please, I ask that you tell no one where I am." Sansa holds her gaze steady with the woman, taking a step forward, arm pulling free from Jon's grasp. "I can never go back North."

From his cradle, Robb lets out a wail and Sansa turns from the knight in her doorway to fetch the crying infant, cradling him to her breast, comforting him quietly. Brienne rises up from her knees, shock rocking her body as she takes in the sight of the baby Sansa holds- too young to be Bolton's child... Brienne's gaze shifts to the man in the room, who's Stark looks were undeniable, and now that she looks carefully, the baby was quite the same. Her mind is racing, reeling, with this new realization and understanding just why she says she cannot go back North. "My lady... If I may speak freely..." Brienne takes a step closer inside the door, a hand clenching into a fist at her side. "Ramsay Bolton has your brother, Rickon, in his dungeons at Winterfell."

Robb nearly slips from her grasp and she sags with the weight of these words; it is not Jon who reaches her first, but Brienne, who steadies the young woman with a surprisingly gentle hand. Sansa tilts her head back so she may look the lady knight in her eyes, blinking against the tears that gather in her own. Jon is at her side then, carefully taking their now smiling son from her arms before he steps back to stand just behind her, his eyes never straying from the woman in armor. Rickon, he thinks, recalling the little child he had left behind in Winterfell all those years ago. "Are you certain?" Sansa hears herself ask, though the voice sounds foreign to even her own ears. When Brienne nods, she winces as if struck, closing her eyes for a long moment. She opens them and casts a glance across her shoulder to where Robb gurgles happily in Jon's arms; protecting him... That was all that mattered to her.

And yet...

"Sansa, you know we must go." It's Jon's voice then, soft but encouraging, forcing her to turn around to face him. "The lone wolf dies..."

"But the pack survives." She finishes and Jon smiles, reaching out to tenderly touch her arm, giving her the courage she knows she needs.

"We can't just leave him." Jon says quietly and she knows, she knows. "We can find Arya and Bran, too." They could be a family again.

Deep down, her mind was made up long before Brienne spoke of Rickon. Her heart is hammering hard in her chest when she turns back around to face Brienne, the knight that has chased her across Westeros, even after she turned away from her. It feels strange, knowing there was someone so very devoted to her. "Brienne, will you take us home? Will you take us back North?" She asks and once again, Brienne is on her knees, sword raised in a gesture of fealty. Once, men had bowed to her father like this, had bowed to Robb like this... She takes a deep breath and accepts the vow offered to her, giving the knight one back of her own.

She turns back to Jon, leaning into him as his free arm slips around her waist, her hand reaching out to brush back the baby's soft, dark locks. "It's time to go home." Jon murmurs and she nods, tilting her head to rest against his shoulder.

And so home they would go, back to the North, back to Winterfell. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa arrive North and begin to seek the support they need to reclaim Winterfell in the name of House Stark.

The night before they leave Lys, a storm rages.

It keeps Robb awake most of the night, his pitiful wails cracking like thunder between the flashes of lightning. For most of the night, she holds her restless infant son close to her chest, whispering soft soothing words against his downy dark head of hair. When he does sleep, she sits in the rocking chair Jon had built for her during her pregnancy, one of the only things she's sad to leave behind when they leave in the morning.

"Sansa?"

She turns from where she stands at the window, the rain lashing out against the glass making it hard to see; but over the wind and the rain, she can hear the rage of the sea. "Afraid, is he?" Jon speaks softly, approaching her where she stands with their son, dressed in only a pair of old, wrinkled breeches. "Let me take him, you need sleep." She opens her mouth to protest, but Jon shakes his head, reaching for Robb without hesitation. "I have slept enough, let me care for him now." Robb fits perfectly into the crook of his arm, his weight warm and comforting. "It's going to be a long few days." Their days of travel would take them back across the Narrow Sea, back to the North, back to a place neither of them had thought they would ever see again. "Get some rest, sweetheart." His other hand reaches out to finds its place at the back of her head, drawing her forehead close enough for a kiss.

Only after she's placed a kiss to her son's feather soft hair, she nods, stepping back from where they stand. "This... Is the right thing to do, isn't it?" She asks softly, raising her gaze to meet his just one last time. He can see the fear that reflects in her eyes- not for herself, but for their child. Despite how beloved the Stark's might be, despite how beloved she was to the Northern people, a child born from the coupling of two half siblings would not be welcome. Not anywhere. But... She thinks of Rickon, she thinks of Arya, of Bran... of all the North... She knows the right answer long before Jon gives his solemn nod.

"I'll protect him." Jon says softly, his tone one she's only heard once before _; i'll protect you, I promise._ "I'll protect you both, Sansa." She smiles, inclining her head as she gazes at the man she loves, the man she knows would give his life in an instant if it meant protecting her. If it meant protecting their son. Without saying it, he understands her true fears, the only thing that could ever keep her from returning North to save her brother and their home. "Go. Rest." Softer still and she nods, leaning in so he might kiss her mouth, soft and slow.

As she drifts off to a dreamless sleep, the storm outside calms, a sign perhaps that their journey might still yet end in peace.

[ x x x ]

"Did you get it?"

Brienne nods, extending out her hand to drop into Sansa's palm a small vial. Something else that Lys was known for were their potent potions and poisons. Sansa had heard Cersei speak of them, had heard the rumors of those poisoned by the queen. "Thank you," she goes on, making her way across the room to where the single trunk of their belongings sits. Kneeling down, she slips the vial into a pocket on the side, a place where it will be safe on their long journey home.

"What will you use it for?"

Sansa rises up from the floor, turning back to face her new loyal knight; once, she had wished with all of her might to have gone with Brienne, to be saved before she could be sold to Ramsay Bolton. But now... She casts her gaze out the doorway, where Jon stands outside with Robb, giving him one last view of the only home he's only known. Now, she can't imagine her life any differently, despite the pain of the past. "To protect my family." She turns back to Brienne with a slight smile. "I hope I won't have any use of it." Brienne nods again, understanding. "It's time to go, I think." Sansa offers her sworn shield a smile and inclines her head, reaching out to gently touch Brienne's hand. She watches as her face softens, the smile transforming her features, filling them with warmth. "Take me home, Brienne."

Together, they step out into the sunshine.

[ x x x ]

When she steps out onto the deck, the air is cold.

She makes her way to the railing and wraps her hands around it, the sea stinging cold as it splashes her face, her hands, her skirts. But she does not try to pull herself from the spray, but rather closes her eyes and shivers- she's not felt this feeling in so very long. She opens her eyes and there in the distance, she can see the docks of White Harbor. It has been a long few days but she knows soon they will step foot upon Northern soil and from that moment on, everything would change.

"Sansa?"

Turning at the sound of his voice, she smiles; they'd been here before, over a year before, but sailing away from the North and the danger. Now they're sailing right back in. She wonders if he's thinking of the same thing. He's found his old furs and hers as well, for she sees it there in his hands. "We'll land soon," he says as he steps up beside her, draping her old cloak over her shoulders. "Are you afraid?" She holds fast to his gaze for a moment before shaking her head. "I didn't tell you, but... I wrote to someone of our arrival." Her gaze, which had turned back towards the sea, snaps back, a brow arching in silent surprise. "We can't land without anywhere to go, Sansa." He says softly, reaching out to tenderly touch her hand that still yet grips the railing. Her skin is icy cold. "It's Samwell Tarly." She relaxes, but only a little. That is a name she can trust, only because Jon trusts him. "I can only hope that my raven reached him in time." There had been no time at all for Jon to wait for a response from his old friend and so they would land in White Harbor and head to the spot that he had established in his letter and hope that Sam would be there waiting. From there, he could only hope that the rest of his plan would fall into place.

Though she doesn't speak, she nods, knowing just as well as him that this was their only option, their only plan.

It had to work.

[ x x x ]

"Put your hood up."

It's Brienne's soft command to her lady and when Sansa turns her blue eyes to her knight, she's smiling gratefully as she does as she's been bid. Her red hair would be known anywhere, even now, and she knows how quickly the rumor of a Stark looking man and redhead woman arriving in White Harbor would spread if her locks were seen by anyone.

With Jon leading the way, they make their way down the center dock and towards the spot known as the Seal Gate. From there they head along a path that is not without traffic- White Harbor is a port city and there are always ships arriving and departing, thus making it a lively enough place despite the cold, snowy climate. It is where the trade for the entire North happens, it is how the rest of the kingdom survives. They step off the main path after so long and they're heading down an alley- Sansa almost opens her mouth to ask Jon if he's lost his mind, but to her surprise he merely gestures ahead to where sure enough, she sees a building come into focus.

"Talk to absolutely no one." Jon says softly as they approach the door, knowing it was quite against his better judgment to bring Sansa to a place such as this. But with Longclaw strapped to his hip once again, he feels powerful, he feels confident. As if this was where he was always meant to be. The North was his home, it gave him strength, it gave him courage. "And stay close to me." He can see she looks worried but she nods before she clutches Robb closer to her chest, hidden beneath her cloak so well it is as if she only carries a bundle. Brienne behind her, they slip single file into the door and out of the cold, Northern air.

Sansa has never seen a place such as this.

It's as if every glance she gives the room, she's met with women in various stages of undress. There's a man fondling one woman's bare breasts for all to see in a corner and there's a rowdy table cheering in another as one man drunkenly kisses the girl trying to pour him another drink. It's a brothel, she realizes, a place she's certainly heard of, but certainly never experienced before. She can't help but to wonder how Jon knows of this place.

Pausing, Jon scans the room; for a single moment, he thinks all is lost, that Sam did not receive his letter in time. But then, as if by some miracle, he spots the round faced man across the room in the darkest, furthest corner. Sam sees him as well and is on his feet as they approach. "Jon!" He greets, clapping his old friend on the back; once, he had thought he would never see Jon Snow again, but there he was, alive and well. He gestures towards Sansa to take a seat and Jon guides her into a chair, leaning in close to whisper something into her ear; she nods and makes no movement to remove her cloak's hood, despite being inside and out of the elements. Jon and Sam sit as well, leaving Brienne to stand just off to the side, her gaze daring any one of those within the room to cross her. "I was surprised to hear from you. Everyone thinks you to be dead."

"Aye, I'm glad to know that. They won't be expecting us." Jon replies, sparing a quick glance to Sansa beside him, who's closed her eyes; she looks as tired as he feels. But their night is not yet over. "Tell me what you know of the North. What is happening?"

Sam opens his mouth as if he means to speak, but then promptly closes it, as if he's uncertain as to what to say. "There is something..." He begins, glancing towards the hooded girl beside Jon, as well, jumping when he finds himself peering into her intense blue stare. "Something I found while at the Citadel." He clarifies, turning back to face Jon, knowing these next few words he had to say would change everything for him. "About you."

"About me?" Jon asks, blinking, clearly surprised.

"It was a diary entry for the High Septon Maynard, he wrote about the annulment of Prince Rhaegar's first marriage and his secret wedding with a girl of Northern blood." Sam speaks slowly, carefully, watching as Jon's face begins to change. He doesn't know, and yet, something tells Sam that somehow he does. "Her name was Lyanna Stark." The cloaked woman beside Jon gives a soft little gasp and Sam casts another glance her way and see she looks as shocked as Jon, though she too holds a strange look of understanding. "According to Maynard, Lyanna gave birth to Rhaegar's son and heir in Dorne and died from childbirth. The child was never found, but they assumed him to be dead. Perhaps buried by a kind soul who witnessed the birth."

Jon can barely hear Sam over the sound of his beating heart. Beneath the table, he feels Sansa touch his leg- a warm touch, a comforting touch. He slips a hand over hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. Somehow, before Sam finishes, Jon already knows what he's going to say.

"You're that son, Jon." Sam speaks clearly, but quietly, so they are not overheard. They are lucky for the loud, rowdy crew in the room; no one pays much mind to their table in the darkest corner. "Rhaegar was your father, Jon, your real father." Jon blinks and for a moment, gives no other reaction, making Sam wonder if he's heard him at all. "Jon... You know what that means, don't you?" He asks and Jon blinks again, not yet speaking, though he does meet Sam's gaze.

"It means he's the true heir to the Iron Throne."

The woman beside Jon speaks for the first time, the sound of her voice causing Sam to nearly leap from his skin. He turns back to her and though she's not lowered her hood, she's sitting up straighter, a new confidence to her body language. He opens his mouth to speak but he's cut off by the sudden wailing of an infant. And it's coming from the woman. Sam watches in absolute shock as she fumbles with the cloak she wears, revealing for the first time that she carries a swaddled baby in her arms, a babe nearly as small as little Sam had been when he first met Gilly. She hushes the baby softly and he quiets after several moments, content enough to suckle his mother's finger in place of her breast. At least for now.

A quick glance around tells Sam that lucky for them, the baby's cries were not heard. Now that he looks closer at the babe she holds, he can see that the child looks quite like Jon- from the dark curls to the shape of his features; it was a Stark child, that much was certain. Now it's Sam's turn to understand what's right there in front of him. This was Jon's son and most certainly the woman beside him, whoever she was, was the infant's mother. "My father was... was Ned Stark." It's Jon speaking for the first time and he's shaking his head as if he doesn't believe the words that have been spoken to him.

Before Sam can speak, it's Sansa that's turning to him, her hand warm upon his shoulder now. Her touch guides his gaze to her face, swiveled in his chair entirely, just so he might face her. "Don't you see...?" She speaks softly, her words so quiet in the loud room that Sam cannot make out everything that she says to him. "This will change everything, Jon, for the better." They were not half siblings, they were cousins. Together, he the heir to the Iron Throne and she the heir to the North, they were a powerful alliance that would gain them more support than simply being Sansa Stark and the bastard of Winterfell. Her words must be the ones he needs to hear for after several long moments, he nods, swallowing down whatever fear and anxiety surely is rising up within him. Then he turns back to face Sam across the table and gives one more, stronger than before, nod.

"Tell me everything you know, Sam."

And he does.

[ x x x ]

_The snow falls swiftly, blanketing the world around her in a fresh cover of white._

_She shivers; not from cold, but from fear._

_Ahead of her, Rickon stands with his back to her, his Tully touched curls gleaming in the pale moonlight. He's grown tall as a man, but she still recalls the day he was born. She opens her mouth to call his name, tears in her eyes, but her voice does not come. Running and running and running, but she cannot seem to reach him, she cannot seem to touch him. And then suddenly, she's there, just an arm's length from where Rickon stands. His name is a whisper on her trembling lips and slowly, painfully slow, he revolves on the spot._

_Her mouth opens in a silent scream._

_It is not Rickon, but rather a rotting corpse that most certainly is Robb; he holds Greywind's severed head in his hands, blood splattered all down his front. She closes her eyes and when she opens them, the face is her father and it's Lady's head that tumbles from his hands to land at her feet, golden eyes blinking up at her. Somewhere, in the distance, comes the howl of a lonely wolf._

_Closer the howl comes, closer, closer..._

She wakes with a gasp, breathing hard, fear still yet clinging to her skin.

"Sansa?"

It's Jon; he stands across the room, Robb cradled in his arms, though the baby sleeps peacefully. "A nightmare, sweetheart?" He whispers as he comes closer, sinking down onto her side of the bed, one hand reaching out to take hers. She trembles, her skin frightfully pale; it's been a long time since she's hard a nightmare that's left her in a state such as this. "Tell me." To his surprise, she shakes her head; it was truly a fearful dream, if she doesn't even wish to speak on it. That was how it always used to be, back in the beginning, back when she first came to him from Ramsay Bolton. He still recalls the nights where she would pace the floor til dawn, too frightened to sleep. He still recalls the nights where she would cry herself back to sleep with her head in his lap, her body simply too tired to fight the need to sleep.

"Why are you awake?" She asks instead, reaching out to tenderly stroke their son's forehead, the only thing that could bring a smile to her face right then was him. "I didn't hear him cry."

"He didn't," Jon admits softly, turning away from her then as if shamed by something. "I couldn't sleep." He goes on, softer still, closing his Stark colored eyes against the emotion welling within him.

Now she understands.

"Oh, Jon..." She murmurs, reaching out for him as he had done for her only moments ago. Her touch brings him back to her and she brushes her fingertips along his jawline, his stubble rough against her skin. Sansa cannot imagine the feelings he must be feeling right then- they had not spoken of it since they found themselves the small room to rent, thanks to Sam's help. All his life, Jon had wanted nothing more than to be a true born Stark, the son of Ned Stark. But he had accepted the hand dealt to him in the form of his bastard status for at least in that he still had a family, brothers and sisters and a father that never once made him feel less than any of the other children. And now... Now...

It's not until he feels her brushing away his tears that Jon knows he's begun to cry. Sansa gently removes Robb from his grasp, tucking the baby carefully against Jon's pillow before she turns back to him and takes him into her arms. She holds him for what might be a moment or a lifetime, he loses track of the time that passes as she whispers soft, comforting words against the shell of his ear, her delicate fingers stroking his dark curls.

"Ned Stark will always be your father," she says when Jon's tears have all been spent. " He knew the truth all along Jon and yet, to keep you safe, he pretended you were his. That is what a real father would do for his child." Sansa smiles, gesturing towards their son that sleeps so soundly in the bed beside them. "It's what you would do for him, isn't it?" Jon takes in the sight of Robb and slowly his lips curve with a small smile.

"Aye," he agrees, turning back to her. "I'd do anything to keep him safe."

"I know," she puts her hand against his once again, giving it a tight squeeze. "And that's how father felt about me, about you, about all of us. It is because of him that you're here with me right now, Jon. You owe it to him to be as good of a father as he was, if not better." He nods; he knows, he knows. He just needed to hear it from someone else. His hand still in hers, he draws her down to the bed and they slide into place on either side, warm beneath the thick furs.

And with their baby tucked safely between them, they drifted back to sleep.

[ x x x ]

When Jon wakes, he knows what he must do.

Sliding out from beneath the covers, he dresses in the dark and slips from the room, leaving Sansa asleep in the bed with the baby. He heads down the hall three rooms and stops at a single door, raises his hand and knocks.

He knocks until finally, the door swings open.

Though Sam grumbles a curse when he sees Jon standing there, he steps back so he may step into the hazy darkness of his room. "There's something I need you to do for me." Jon says the moment the door has closed behind him. Perhaps it's the tone of voice in which he speaks, but almost at once, Sam is alert. "The mother of my son... The woman I'm with... I need you to marry us." Before, marriage was not an option if they came back North, it never would have been accepted. They knew what they were returning to, they knew what would happen, but they came anyways. They came because their baby brother was in shackles in a cell and the monster who held him held their home hostage, too. But now... The best thing that could ever come from the truth of his parentage... They could love each other openly. They could proclaim their child the heir to Winterfell as well as the Iron Throne. Though a crown of his own was not something Jon wanted, he knows what will happen if he does not seek out his birthright. He swore he would do anything to protect the family he had made with Sansa and so he would. "Marry us. Today. And then we will claim what's ours."

Sam nods.

[ x x x ]

"But where are we going?"

Jon glances over his shoulder to where she follows behind him, her red hair threatening to free itself from the confines of her cloak's hood with every icy gust of wind. "You will see, we're almost there. Watch your step," he guides her over a fresh heaping of snow and she sees this new path leads downward, towards a gathering of trees that she almost at once recognizes. "Ah, you've spotted them." He chuckles, gesturing towards the vibrant red leaves that guide them along the rest of the way. "It turns out every town in the North has a godswood of its own." They're beneath the canopy of trees now and Sansa pauses for only a moment, taking in the sight of the frozen godswood. Once, she had thought she would never return North, let alone stand in a quiet godswood. "I know it isn't Winterfell's godswood... But..." He trails off for now she's noticed Sam just ahead, standing beneath the heart tree, a knowing sort of smile on his lips.

"Jon... What... What is this?" She's gazing back and forth, from Jon to Sam and then back again, as if she expects one of the men to vanish entirely.

"I told you I would do anything to protect you, so let me." Jon says softly, his hand coming up to catch her cheek, gently, lovingly. "Marry me, Sansa. Right here, right now." He watches as her face changes, her surprise melting into pure joy, the smile on her face lighting her up in a way he's not seen since the day Robb was born. "And then we will go and take back Rickon and Winterfell. We will find Arya and Bran and we'll be a family again." She nods, a strong solemn nod, her chest swelling with pride and love for the man that is offering himself to her entirely, in a way she had once thought never to be possible. "When the North is ours again, we will head south and I will take the Iron Throne from the Lannister's." He vows and her surprise returns. "In a world where Cersei Lannister rules as queen, you will never be safe. And she will never let the North go. If we wish it to be ours and only ours, we must take her down, too." He would fight any man, any army, and any monster if it meant he would keep her safe.

Tears flood her eyes despite the smile on her lips and she nods again, allowing Jon to take her by the hand and lead her towards the heart tree where Sam stands, still waiting for them. And then...

Then they get married.

[ x x x ]

The first place that they go is just east of Castle Black.

And just as Jon said that they would, they find the camp of wildlings that Jon had once allied himself with. Tormund at their command, he holds the power of two thousand fighting men and Jon knows that if there's no one else in all of the North that he can count on, he will always have Tormund.

"I wonder who will be more excited to see you?" Sansa's voice breaks into his thoughts as they approach the camp, voices already carrying along the winter wind. Jon grins, tossing a glance over his shoulder at her where she walks, Brienne close behind, the baby bundled and carried in a sling she's fastened around her torso, happily snoozing despite the chill of the wind. "Tormund or Ghost." Jon chuckles and nods, having been thinking about his wolf since the moment they set forth on this journey to find Tormund and the wildlings.

They don't have long to think for suddenly comes the howl of a wolf.

All three of them come to a stop at the end of the camp, where tents and huts have been erected as shelters from the icy cold, fires built in various places to offer as much warmth as possible to the elderly and children that sit around in groups. That is when Jon spots the wolf- he's running from the center of the camp, faster than Jon thinks he's ever seen him run before. Someone screams as Ghost leaps through the air, landing on Jon and knocking him back into the snow. More yelling, more voices. Chaos follows as the wildlings gather, thinking the white wolf was attacking a stranger, not greeting a beloved friend, until finally a loud voice booms above it all: "Little crow!"

"Good boy, Ghost," Jon is laughing, trying to push Ghost's paws from his shoulders so he might at least sit up. It isn't until Sansa sinks down and puts her warm hand to the wolf's back that he turns away, instead far more interested in her and the baby. A shadow crosses over him and he tilts his head back, looking up into the grinning face of his old friend. "Tormund." He greets as the orange haired man reaches down, offering a hand, which Jon takes and allows the wildling to pull him up onto his feet again. The two men embrace but even when they pull back, Tormund can't help but to clasp the younger man on his shoulder. "Edd," he says, seeing the dark haired man now approaching as well, a stunned look on his face.

"You brought the big woman!" Tormund breaks in with a wolfish grin, his eyes seeking out Brienne that stands just behind Sansa, a hand on the hilt of her sword. "And a... Baby?" The only thing able to drive his attention away from the lady knight was the sight of the sleeping baby in Sansa's arms- a baby that he sees looks unmistakably like the man standing in front of him. "You must have a lot to say, if you've come all this way." Tormund says, offering Sansa a smile before he turns back to Jon. "Come, let's get the lady and littler crow out of the cold." He gestures for them to follow him and so they do, falling into step as if they'd never even left.

[ x x x ]

"Are you ready?"

Jon's voice in her ear makes her shiver, but she nods, a wane smile on her lips. "I am." She says, perhaps with more confidence than she truly feels. But she is a Stark, she is the blood of Winterfell, she is strong. She is brave.

The door they stand outside of suddenly opens and a steward appears in the door way, gesturing for the pair to step into the room. They have left Robb behind with Brienne and Sansa feels lost without her son near. But there is something else she must focus on; the present, so they might have a future. And now was not the time to tell anyone the truth about Jon and his birth. Once they had full Northern support, they would tell all of the Houses at once, before they take back Winterfell from the Bolton's.

Together, she and Jon walk along the length of the room, towards the single table that sits in the hall. House Reed is a modest house, but they are loyal and fiercely so, it only made sense for this to be the first noble house they seek support from. Howland Reed sits behind the table with just a single man, perhaps his maester, standing behind him. "When they told me Jon Snow was at my gate, requesting an audience with me, I thought it to be lie." The man says as they approach, a smile tugging at his lips. "But here you are, Jon Snow, alive and well it looks like." He rises up from his chair, stepping around the table so he can come and stand before them. "You are your father's son, bastard born or not, you have the Stark look." In truth, Howland is somewhat taken aback by the resemblance, it is as if he's peering into his old friend's face again, not his son. "Welcome to Greywater Watch." For the first time, he spares a look at the cloaked woman beside Jon; she is tall and thin, but with her hood pulled up there is little he can see besides her ivory features and the blue eyes that peer back at him. "To you too, my lady." Intense blue eyes, he notes. He feels as if he's seen eyes like these before, but he cannot place it.

"I thank you for your warm welcome, Lord Reed," Jon greets, clasping hands with the man for a moment, offering him a grin. "I imagine you understand I've come for a reason." To this Howland chuckles, though he shrugs as he makes his way back around to the chair he had vacated just a few minutes before.

"Aye, there must be. The whole North thinks you to be dead, it's been well over a year since you were last even rumored to be seen." He replies as a door behind him opens and two servants step in, bringing ale and chairs, all of which are offered to the guests on the other side of the table. "Many say all of House Stark is dead, you know." Jon's face darkens but he gives a solemn nod, taking the seat offered to him only after he's ensured the young woman beside him is seated, too. "None of your younger half siblings have been seen in years." Again, Jon nods, his hand clenching into a fist beneath the table. "And the poor oldest girl. Married to that bastard Bolton." Reed scowls, shaking his head. "I imagine he had her killed, he got what he wanted out of her when Winterfell became his."

"Sansa Stark isn't dead."

Both men turn to the woman seated beside Jon. Hands reaching up, she pulls back the hood of her cloak, revealing for the first time since she stepped foot in the North the rich red hair that every Northern man would know. "By the gods... Sansa Stark!" Howland Reed jumps to his feet in shock, shaking the goblets of ale atop the table in his haste. Those blue eyes, that red hair... He knows her because he knew her mother, because he once knew Sansa when she was but a little girl. "You're alive," he whispers, tears filling his eyes without shame, hands trembling as they settle upon the top of the table.

"I'm alive because Jon saved me," Sansa says with a smile for Jon, though she returns her gaze to Howland, head tilting as the man looks torn between falling to his knees or jumping for joy. "The North was not safe for me, not with Ramsay Bolton in Winterfell and Cersei Lannister in the South." Reed is nodding, listening despite the whirlwind of emotions rushing through him. "We need your help." She goes on, softer, never breaking eye contact with the man in front of her. "Winterfell belongs to me, to Jon. To House Stark. Please... Please, lend us your support. Help us take back the North." Her pleading is unnecessary, Howland Reed knew he'd have done anything she asked of him.

Silently, Howland Reed drops to his knees and unsheathes the sword at his hip, offering it up in the North's gesture of fealty. "I once pledged my life and sword to your brother, Robb Stark, I will pledge it to you now. To House Stark." Sansa swallows, her heart racing as the man speaks words she never once thought to hear again.

Beside her, Jon puts a warm hand on her shoulder and she knows that they're one step closer to saving Rickon and taking back the North. It was only a matter of time.

Soon, they would truly go home.

[ x x x ]

Somehow, against all odds, they have done it.

It is not all the houses- some are loyal to the Bolton's now- but it is enough to muster an army together. The heads of all those houses, along with Tormund and Edd, sit in the war tent with Jon and Sansa, the first night all of them have come together. For hours now they've been inside, so long now that the candles Sansa had lit when darkness fell were now dripping pudles of wax on the tabletops.

"My lords, we thank you again for the support you give us." Jon speaks, glancing around the room at all of the faces. "Before we depart for the night, there is something else we must speak of." Some of the lords exchange glances, but more nod, encouraging Jon to continue speaking. Despite the little time they've spent together, these Northern lords have begun to develop a respect for Ned Stark's bastard son. In truth, some had already made the decision to follow him wherever he went, as they had followed Robb Stark and Ned Stark before him. "Sam," Jon gestures for his old friend to step up beside him, looking somewhat uncomfortable as all the eyes fall upon him instead. "Sam found out something while in the Citadel, from a journal entry of the High Septon at the time of Robert's Rebellion." Many of the men in the room know who Jon speaks of, they remember those days when Rhaegar Targaryen and Robert Baratheon fought for the throne and Robert won.

"What does this journal entry speak of?" One lord cuts in, perhaps uncertain as to what this has to do with anything at all.

Jon sighs, his heart racing; he isn't certain at all how the Northern lords will take the truth of his birth. But this was it, this was the moment. He could only hope that when the truth came out, these men would remain loyal to at least Sansa, to at least the son and heir she's given them. "It spoke of his anullment to Elia Martell and his secret marriage to Lyanna Stark." A collective gasp goes up among the tent, more looks exchanged by the lords as the information sinks into their brains. "Rhaegar and Lyanna had a single child, born in Dorne after Robert Baratheon ascended the throne."

"Marriage? He kidnapped her." Another lord speaks out.

"A child?" Another cries out, the realization of such a thing already dawning on him.

"Aye." Jon lets out the breath he's been holding, yet again glancing around the room, taking in the various degrees of emotion upon all of their faces. Beside him, Sansa is still, but she holds her head high as she listens to the conversations breaking out all around them. "I know it is a lot to take in, but as Sam as pointed out to me when I too expressed disbelief- why would the High Septon have reason to lie?"

These words sink in and the lords circle back to Jon, their side conversations and remarks tapering off. "If there was a child born, where is it now? Dead?" They all know what Robert Baratheon would have done if a child of Rhaegar's was left alive.

Jon shakes his head. "I am that child." He says the words simply and they fall from his tongue much easier than he had thought they might. For several moments, there is nothing but stunned silence and it only deepens his fears that these men will not remain loyal to him.

"Then you are heir to the Iron Throne." It's little Lyanna Mormont, named in honor of his mother, the youngest of all of them in the room. "I had thought in you we might find our new King in the North, but we've found more than that." Her dark eyes hold steady to Jon's gaze and he's surprised to see the quickest flash of a smile on her stoic features. "Are you asking us to help you reclaim the Iron Throne, once you have Winterfell?"

Jon shakes his head, rising up to his feet now, staring out at the lords. "I'm asking you to do whatever it takes to keep the North safe, to keep her safe." He gestures towards Sansa, who's blue eyes widen slightly in surprise; this was not the way she had thought him to take things. "Sansa Stark is the heir to the North and I am bound to keep her and the North safe. Just as you all are." He puts a hand onto her shoulder and his touch is warm, encouraging. Before all of the eyes in the room, she slides her hand into place over his. "None of us will ever be safe if Cersei Lannister sits upon the throne, even if we take back Winterfell." Jon goes on, stepping around the table then so he can stand closer to all of them in the tent. "I am not asking you to sacrifice your men for me or for what might be my birthright. I don't care if the Iron Throne is mine or yours or yours," he sighs, another shake of his head. "The only thing I care about is keeping the North safe."

"You have House Mormon'ts support, Jon Snow. In this and whatever comes next." Lyanna says after a few beats of silence. Murmurs of assent follow, much to Jon's relief.

"The North still needs someone to lead," Jon says, speaking more words that surprise Sansa. Words that he had never once mentioned to her until this very moment. "You wish to have a King in the North, but what you need is a queen." He turns back to face her across the table that separates them. "Queen in the North," he says, before he sinks to a knee, Longclaw presented to her in his gesture of loyalty. She is his queen, no matter what his Targaryen blood might say.

"Queen in the North," Brienne echoes from where she stands at the far side of the room, dropping to her knees without hesitation. One by one, every man in the room rises and then falls, the only sound that of the steel against sheath as the Northern lords offer their fealty to the young woman that's now risen to her feet.

_Queen in the North, Queen in the North._

The words are an echo, a chant; she sucks in a breath as her eyes find Jon's, his lips curving with a smile as he gives her a nod. Her fears begin to fade and she holds her head a bit higher and looks out into the sea of faces, knowing it was them that she could count on. Once, she had nothing but fear to live on. Once she had been alone. But out there she sees faces of men who were loyal to her name and her house, men who would swing their swords in her name, men that would die to protect her. In these loyal men, she has protection, she has what she needs to bring her family back together again.

And so she nods, accepting the crown they offer.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle for Winterfell has come, in the end, will Jon and Sansa reclaim what so rightly belongs to them?

In King's Landing, a raven arrives.

"A letter, your grace." The servant bows and backs from the room, leaving his queen with the letter in her hands, seated just behind the desk of her solar. Turning it over, Cersei recognizes at once the seal upon the letter. Blinking, she breaks the Stark seal and unfolds the parchment, the handwriting familiar to her, even now.

_This is your one and only warning.  
Abdicate the throne, as it was never yours to claim.   
The North does not forget and one day soon, the wolves will come again. _

_Sansa Stark, Queen in the North._

Cersei crumples the parchment in her fist and tosses it as hard as she can, jumping up from where she sits, storming across the room to stand at the window, peering out into the sunlit city, the sun beginning it's downward cycle towards the horizon. _She's alive,_ Cersei grumbles to herself, catching her lower lip between her teeth, tearing at her flesh. _And dares declare herself Queen in the North_. She had heard the rumors- the rumors that Sansa Stark and Jon Snow were alive and gaining support in the North, but she had thought them to be just that- rumors. It had been almost two years since the pair had seemingly vanished, dead most assumed. Cersei had spent more than one gold coin on searching for the Stark girl, but every effort went without reward.

There comes a knock on the door and she turns as it opens. "Sansa Stark is alive," she says to Jaime when he steps into the room, the door falling closed behind him. "She calls herself Queen in the North." Jaime does not look all that surprised, telling Cersei that he too has been told of this new development. "Send someone. Poison her, cut off her head, I do not care!" Cersei jabs a finger into his chest, her anger spilling over. "I want her dead."

"I've heard. But Cersei... There is more." Jaime says, a hand to her arm calming the rage within her and though she opens her mouth to speak, she falls quiet, allowing him to speak on. "I've been written that Jon Snow is..." He glances left and right, as if to ensure they are truly alone, before continuing. "Jon Snow is Rhaegar Targaryen's son, begotten by that Stark girl he took off with at the tourney."

"Impossible."

"I thought so, too, but it seems as if it's been written of in the collection of the Septon's journals. He wrote of an annulment. A marriage."

Cersei's eyes widen, shock evident, but then those eyes narrow as she takes a step back from Jaime and turning her back to him as if she will hear no more. "A Targaryen heir," the golden queen murmurs, arms folding over her chest as she sinks into thought. "Do they bow to him?" She asks aloud, though she knows Jaime does not know the answer. "Do they call him the rightful king?" The North is extremely loyal, distrusting folk- they would stand behind Jon Snow, even with his newfound Targaryen blood, well before they would ever stand with her. "It doesn't matter," she decides with a shake of her cropped golden hair, turning back around to face her twin. "He will die, too in the end." Jaime nods, though more so because he knows what will happen if he disagrees, rather than actually agreeing with her. He hates to admit it, even to himself, but Jaime hates this woman Cersei has become. "What of Highgarden?" She steers the conversation elsewhere, to speak of their other enemies in other places.

He sighs, but he speaks anyways, for it's all he can really do.

[ x x x ]

They have taken up residence in the mountains that border the wolfswood, with House Flint; it is close to Winterfell, but not dangerously so. And the woods are full of wolves, ready and willing to bare their fangs at anyone who dares trek through the trees. Ghost roams among the wolves, his howls louder than all the rest, a reminder that House Stark is to come again.

It has been a long three weeks since the truth of Jon's birth came to light- among other things. The truth of their relationship, no, marriage, had to be explained and of course there was little Robb to introduce. Sansa considers herself lucky to be surrounded by lords who in the end, care more for the happiness of their queen and the security of the North than a child born out of wedlock. If anyone wonders about his age and when he was conceived, none speak of it- at least out loud. The truth was, the lords know that the birth of an heir only strengthens their power of independence. And more than that, with Jon as the true heir to the Iron Throne and an heir to follow after him only strengthens his claim. What did Cersei have to offer the realm of man? Certainly no heir. Sansa knows how little love there is for Cersei in King's Landing- she knows that they fear their queen and that she thrives on that fear. _If I am ever queen, I shall make them love me._ Those were the words she once thought, so many years ago and she can't help but to smile as she thinks of the Northern lords and their loyalty. It was not the crown she had thought to ever wear, but she would make her people proud. She would keep them safe.

"Your grace?"

She turns at the sound of the voice, still not quite used to her new title. It's Lord Royce that stands there, one of her most loyal of men, a man she considers herself lucky to have at her side. "I knocked, but..."

"My apologies," she smiles, tilting her head as she steps towards where the man stands. "I was so lost in thought, I didn't hear you."

The older man smiles and shakes his head, offering her a quick bow now that she faces him. "I don't mean to interrupt, it's just... This arrived just now." He holds out a letter to her which she takes, though at once she sees it isn't addressed to her, but to Jon. When Sansa looks up at him, Lord Royce nods. "It is for Lord Snow, but I thought you might wish to read it first." Sansa flips the letter over and she sees it; the Bolton seal.

Just like that, it's two years ago and she's standing in Winterfell, trembling as Ramsay raises his fist. Just like that, she's not strong, she's weak.

"Your grace?" Lord Royce is softly calling out to her, his hand warm when it gently touches her arm. She leaps from her mind and blue eyes snap back to the older man's face. "I'm sorry, I didn't think-" she can see the horror on his face and she softens, shaking her own head.

"It's fine." She says, swallowing down the fear that has jumped into her throat. "Perhaps Ramsay Bolton has written something that will interest us all," she goes on, walking around to behind the desk that sits just behind where she stands. "Send Jon to me, won't you? It's his letter and I will have him read it first. Then we shall decide what to do with the information inside, if anything at all." Lord Royce nods and then backs from the room with another bow, leaving Sansa alone once again with only her thoughts as a companion.

If she knows Ramsay, his letter will be full of threats, empty threats perhaps, but threats all the same. Not to mention... She thinks of Rickon kept in Winterfell's cramped, cold dungeon. He will die of the cold if they can't get to him soon, if Ramsay doesn't get to him first. Knowing what was done to her in Winterfell... What was done to Theon... Sansa shudders. She can't think about what could be or couldn't be happening to her baby brother. It would only drive her mad.

Jon doesn't take long to arrive, stepping into the room with a knock, though she's told him before he needn't bother. Behind him comes Brienne, Robb tucked carefully into her arms; Sansa smiles at the sight, her heart warming with the knowledge that her son has a guardian that no man in the world could defeat in a sword fight. Brienne might have pledged herself to her, but something tells Sansa that it is her son that has lay claim to Brienne's heart. Tormund and Edd come behind her and thats's when the door swings closed. "This has come for you," Sansa says without preamble, waving the still sealed letter for the room to see, though she passes it along to Jon. "From Ramsay." Jon's face darkens but she can see the surprise flicker across his face. "Open it."

He does. And then he begins to read.

" _To the traitor and bastard Jon Snow,  
You allowed thousands of wildlings past the Wall. You have betrayed your own kind and you have betrayed the North. Winterfell is mine, bastard, come and see."_ Jon falls quiet, sparing a quick glance to Tormund before he goes on. _"Your brother Rickon is in my dungeon. His direwolf's skin is on my floor, come and see."_ Another pause, for Sansa sucks in a breath and he can see as she curls her hands into fists atop her lap. _"I want my bride back. Send her to me, bastard, and I will not trouble you or your wildling lovers. Keep her from me and I will ride North to slaughter every wildling man, woman, and babe living under your protection. You will watch as I skin them living. You will-"_ He stops, he cannot finish, he cannot read aloud the words that are written there.

"Go on." It's Sansa, a quiet command. He can't even open his mouth and so she leans over the desk, snatching the parchment his hands. Only he can see the quiet fury in her eyes, the silent anguish that threatens to overflow. _"You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister. You will watch as my dogs devour your wild little brother. Then I will spoon your eyes from their sockets and let my dogs do the rest. Come and see."_ She tosses the letter down atop the desk and leans back in her chair, raising her gaze to meet Jon's.

"Why does he write to me?"

"Either he's yet to hear about you, or he doesn't believe the rumors." She says, sitting up a little bit straighter, believing the latter. By now, the rumors of Jon's true parentage and the building of their army to reclaim Winterfell surely had reached him. And there was little chance that he had not heard about the declaration of her queenship. Despite it all, he still wrote to Jon, as if none of it were true. "Despite being legitimatized, Ramsay can't stand that he was born a bastard, and so he hates them all because of it. He means to insult you. To frighten you into submission." Her mind turns back to Rickon and she closes her eyes for a long moment before she opens them again and rises to her feet. "What do we do now? The longer we wait to attack, the longer Rickon is in his hands. He'll die soon if we don't do something."

Jon is staring back at her, his Stark colored eyes sharper than usual. "We will get him back, Sansa." He speaks with a confidence he isn't certain he feels. "I will write back, I will meet with him." She opens her mouth to protest but he shakes his head, silencing her before she can speak. "Perhaps we can solve this without bloodshed." In his mind, he's already begun to formulate the plan that might save more lives than it loses by the end of things.

She opens her mouth again, but she thinks better on it and after another moment gives a nod. "I trust you," she says simply, a wane smile curving on her lips. Jon leans over the desk to give her a quick kiss, a hand sliding into place against her cheek as he gently rubs his thumb along the length of her bottom lip, still warm from the touch of his.

"I won't let you down."

And she knows it.

[ x x x ]

"You don't have to be here."

Sansa turns her gaze towards Jon, who sits on his horse beside hers, waiting at the meeting spot for Ramsay, who they can both see approaching from over the hill. "Yes I do." Is all she says, tightening her grip on the reins, fingers icy cold despite the thick gloves that she wears. Her white mare shifts, as if she too can sense the discomfort of her rider, and somewhere behind them, Ghost howls.

Ramsay and his small entourage come to a stop just several feet from theirs and Sansa sucks in her breath as the man that tortured her for months levels his gaze with hers. His lips curve with a malicious sort of smile, one she's seen numerous times before. One she knows means danger. "My beloved wife," he greets as if he is the doting husband and not a monster in man's clothing. "I have missed you terribly all this time." His gaze shifts from her to Jon, eyes narrowing somewhat, though his mouth has yet to lose it's grin. "Thank you for returning Lady Bolton to me. Now," he pauses, smile vanishing, his dark eyes never once wavering in their gaze. "Get off your horse and kneel before me. Beg my forgiveness for stealing away my bride and raising an army against me. Name me the true Warden of the North and I will pardon you for all your transgressions, treasonous as they may be." He smirks now, as if he thinks he's got the upper hand, as if he thinks he's already won this battle. "I will even pardon these treasonous lords who have betrayed my house in your name. I will forgive you for the viscous lies you spread of your birth just to garner their support. And my sweet wife, I won't even punish you for allowing them to call you their queen." For a moment he turns his eyes back to her, surprised to see she glares at him with eyes sharper than any blade. This is not the young woman he recalls. "You don't have the numbers like I do, you don't even have Winterfell." Despite the support they've gotten, it was true that their army did not quite equate to the one Ramsay has. "Come bastard, there's no need to send your men to slaughter. There is no need for a battle." He's turned his attention back to Jon and once again, he smirks, confident that any moment Jon will slide from his horse and kneel before him.

Instead, Jon remains there in his saddle, watching as a cold fury crosses Ramsay's features. "Aye, you're right." Jon finally speaks, nodding his head as his horse shifts beneath him. "There's no need for a battle. Thousands of men don't have to die." Beside him, Sansa listens carefully, for these words are not what she thought she might hear Jon say. The truth was, he'd not revealed to her what he had planned to say to Ramsay here at this meeting, but something told her he knew exactly what he was doing. She trusted him and so she continued to listen. "Only one of us." She turns her head to him then, eyes rounding in her shock. Across from them, Ramsay's face changes, something like worry and surprise flitting across his features. "Let's finish this the old fashioned way. You and me."

At the sound of laughter, Sansa turns back to Ramsay, who is nervously chuckling at the words Jon has just spoken. "I keep hearing stories about you bastard," he says when he's sobered, shaking his head. "The way the people in the North talk about you, it's as if you're the greatest swordsman who's ever lived." He's heard those rumors- that there wasn't a man out there that could take Jon Snow down. "Maybe I would beat you, maybe I wouldn't." He shrugs, as if it means little to him. "But what I do know, is my army would crush yours."

Now they know, now they all know- Ramsay Bolton is afraid.

Jon ducks his head to hide the smile that's surfacing; he had not thought things to fall into place so easily. "Aye, you have the numbers to beat us," he replies, raising his gaze back up to meet Ramsay's. "But will your men want to fight for you when they learn you wouldn't fight for them?" A silence descends among them and Jon knows he has him right where he needed him to be. There would be nothing Ramsay could say that would stop the seeds of doubt from running rampant among his men.

Again Ramsay laughs, as if it matters not what he's just said to him. Truth was, a cold sense of dread was filling him up. "You're good. Very good." He's glancing left and right at the men that surround him, wishing for just one moment that he'd chosen different men to bring. These Umber's and Manderly's were only loyal because he held Winterfell- but their loyalty was fleeting, as was many of the men beneath him. He knows he must try something else to get Jon Snow where he needed him. "Will you let your little brother die because you're too proud to surrender?"

For the first time, it's Sansa that speaks.

"How do we know you have him?" She asks, not once looking away as Ramsay turns his eyes upon her instead. His mouth twitches with a smile and he looks to the man on his left, giving a quick nod of his head. They all watch as the man pulls the head of a direwolf from his saddlebag and tosses it onto the ground between them. Sansa blinks but she does not speak; she can't, she can't. No, she thinks, I am stronger than this. Ramsay opens his mouth to speak, but she cuts him off. "You're going to die tomorrow, Lord Bolton. Sleep well."

Then she's gone, urging her horse away from the scene.

"She's a fine woman, your sister," Ramsay says when she's gone, that malicious smile returning. Jon's lips curl with a scowl, but he doesn't reply. "I look forward to having her back in my bed, even if she's been used by you like the rumors say." It takes every ounce of his self control not to leap from his horse and drive Longclaw straight through his fucking heart. "If you change your mind bastard, send word. Otherwise... I will see you upon the battlefield."

And then he too is gone.

[ x x x ]

The firelight bathes her, casting a golden glow to her ivory skin, illuminating her like a goddess.

He sits on the edge of the bed, watching her as she slowly comes towards him, sinking into his arms when he opens them wide. Her mouth is on his, capturing him in a kiss that would have surely knocked him off his feet had he been standing. When he breaks the kiss, it's to catch her face between his palms, committing to memory the softness of her skin, the glimmer of her eyes, everything and anything that he can. The way that she's looking at him, he knows she's doing the same. "I'll come back to you, you know." He assures her softly, knowing her worries without her even saying them aloud.

A smile tugs at her lips as she leans in, forehead against his. "I know." She speaks softly, a hand sliding into his curls. Curls that one day their son will wear, too. A day she looks forward to perhaps more than any other. Jon's arms tighten their hold upon her and as he gently draws her down onto their bed, his lips find hers. She doesn't even know she's crying until Jon kisses the tears from her cheeks, tender and sweet.

This is the moment she'll hang onto. This is the moment she won't ever forget.

[ x x x ]

Dawn breaks and there is a stillness to the air; the calm before the storm.

The sky is clear of clouds, streaked instead with the colors of sunrise, pink like her lips, crimson like her hair. She is everywhere. The wind is the whisper of her voice against his skin, the rising sun is the warmth of her smile. He closes his eyes and breathes in, slow and deep, the image of her as he'd left her only moments ago, asleep in their bed, coming to his whirling mind. And baby Robb, too, who had slept peacefully in his cradle in the room, not even stirring when Jon had brushed a hand across his soft dark hair.

He opens his eyes and in the distance is Winterfell, the Bolton flags waving in the wind; soon, those would fall.

"Ready, little crow?" It's Tormund there at his side, Edd close behind. Their army has gathered, the various heads of the houses speaking to their people, giving them perhaps words of encouragement before the battle begins. Jon spares him a glance, a chuckle, and then a nod. "The queen is with the big woman, littler crow, too." He goes on, having only just left their sides a few moments ago. Jon feels his heart grow warm as it always does when he thinks of the relationship Tormund has built with Sansa and their son; he is grateful for those who offer them protection, for if something... If anything...

"If anything happens to me, take care of her, won't you?" Jon asks, turning to face the two men at his side. "Protect her. And Robb, too." He holds fast to their gazes and it takes only a moment for both men to nod. When he turns back to face front, they all can see Ramsay's army has begun it's approach and it is not the army they had perhaps expected to see him bring.

"It worked, eh?" Edd asks with a smirk, his eyes drifting along the lines of men. "Two thousand or so, you reckon?" Jon nods, knowing that there was no doubt his army now outnumbered the one Ramsay had boasted of only the morning before.

"Even the most loyal beast will turn on its master if it's not treated right," Jon says, knowing his words from the day before had not fallen on deaf ears. It was clear that Ramsay's decision to not stand up for his men and protect them from this battle had sent his men from him. He had no additional troops to rally to his side and now most certainly, he would be on the losing side of this battle. "It's time." He says, turning back towards the lines of soldiers he's mustered together, the men that will fight for Sansa, for Winterfell, for House Stark.

When he turns back, it's to draw Longclaw from its sheath. "For the North!" He bellows, thrusting his sword into the air, the men behind him cheering the words back. "For the Queen!" Again, the troops shout and hold their fists, their swords, high into the sky.

And then...

The battle begins.

[ x x x ]

In the end, it's thousands of men that choose not to fight for Ramsay.

Though he didn't know it at the time, some had deflected to Jon's army that very first night, some even the morning of battle. In the end, Ramsay's forces were crushed and then driven back... Back until there was no choice but to surrender.

When it's over and he stands at the edge of the battlefield, looking out at the dead, his heart is somber. Despite believing in what he was doing, it made killing no less easy. Not when it was Northern men who only fought against him because it was what they were told to do. Footsteps approach and when he turns, it's Tormund there, bloodied and bruised, but alive. Somewhere out there, Edd too was well, searching the field for survivors along with a few of the wildling men. "Bring her to me, won't you?" He asks and Tormund nods, needing to ask no further questions.

"What will you do with him?" Tormund asks before he goes, gesturing towards Ramsay Bolton that sits in chains just a short distance from where they stand. The man is bloody, beaten, his face swollen from the perhaps several punches Jon had landed before deciding it was not his place to take the man's life. And so he'd left him a bleeding mess on the ground, teeth knocked from his gums, nose broken, commanding the nearest man to bring him the chains that now encircled his wrists and ankles.

"It's for her to decide." Jon says, turning back to face Tormund who nods. "I have to find Rickon," he goes on, turning away only then. "Bring her to Winterfell, bring her home." He says over his shoulder and then he's running.

Running faster than he's ever run in all of his life.

Through the gates and into the courtyard, already full of frightened servants come to see the end results of the battle; one maid gives a little scream when she sees Jon rushing through, another drops to her knees in prayer, in sheer relief.

But he cares little for any of them, there is only one thing he cares about and that's finding Rickon. He rushes through the courtyard towards the door that leads down into the dungeons that Winterfell holds. Down the stone steps, nearly tripping over them in his haste to reach the bottom, Jon shouts his little brother's name. He pauses in the center of the long, dark corridor, breathing hard as he listens for any response. "Rickon!" He calls again, fear making him shiver as there comes no response.

Until...

"Hello?" It's a timid voice, a voice torn between boy and man. His heart skips a beat at the sound of it, coming from the cell just two from where he stands. Jon swallows against the lump in his throat as he peers into the bars of the cell, where Rickon now stands, probably just having got up from the cold stone floor. He's grown tall, thin perhaps from his time in captivity, but he is built like Sansa- like a willow tree. His Tully touched curls are long and unruly, desperately in need of a cut, but he can see the curls fall in the same way Robb's once had. He's right there then, hands grasping the iron bars, staring out at Jon, blinking as if he's trying to assure himself that he isn't dreaming. "J-Jon, is that you?" The boy speaks, quiet and tired, a voice of someone who isn't ready to believe that any of this could be real.

"Aye, it's me, Rickon. It's me and you're safe now." Tears are threatening to fill his eyes and so he blinks against them, his hand reaching out to gently touch the boy's, his skin cold to the touch. "Let me get you out of here," he glances down the hall and sure enough, there are the dungeon keys hanging on a peg on the wall, the same place they'd been kept since he was a boy playing down here with Robb. When he's grabbed them, he wrenches open the iron door and Rickon is in his arms, crying, laughing, clutching at the older brother he thought he might never see again. Jon wraps him in his arms, leaning over to press a kiss to the top of his curls. "Let's go get you warmed up," he hefts the boy up into his arms, unable to help but recall that first day Sansa had shown up at Castle Black- pale and cold, broken but not destroyed. Not entirely. Rickon seems thin and cold, but he seems unharmed for the most part, and Jon can only thank the old gods and even the new ones for perhaps protecting the youngest of the Stark's.

He carries him up out of the damp darkness of the dungeon and into the courtyard, where more people have gathered. Survivors of the battle litter the space, all soldiers from various houses, some bowing their heads in respect for the man that carries his little brother from the darkness and into the light, more falling to their knees in fealty of the man they know they will someday call king, be it of the Iron Throne or the North. But he moves past them all, carrying Rickon through the set of double doors that open up into the main corridor, the closet room to him the great hall. It's been years and years since he stepped foot into this place, into Winterfell, but his feet know the way as if he'd never even left.

The hall is blazing with firelight, for which he is thankful. He brings Rickon close as he dares and gently sets him on his feet, dragging a chair up for the boy a moment later. "Sit, warm yourself," he commands softly, a hand to his brother's head as the sound of footsteps fill his ears. He thinks it will be Sansa and Tormund, but he's surprised to see an old woman there, a woman he recalls from childhood. It's Agatha, perhaps the oldest of the servants in Winterfell now, that comes towards them, a blanket already in her hands. She silently offers it to Jon, who takes it and turns so he might drape it over Rickon's shoulders.

"Is she coming?" Agatha asks, softly, and Jon knows at once who she means. When he nods, tears fill her eyes and she smiles. "I have prayed for her everyday since she came here to marry that Bolton," she whispers, thinking back to the girl she had once served, to the girl who had endured so very much. "House Stark has come back to Winterfell." Agatha whispers before she curtsies to Jon and steps from the room, murmuring about the food she will have prepared for the entire castle.

Jon can't help but to smile and when he turns back to Rickon, the boy is staring after Agatha, his eyes wide. "What is it?" He asks, sinking down til he's at eye level with him.

"She fed me extra, she would sneak me food even though Ramsay forbid it." Rickon says softly, recalling the times Agatha would creep into the dark dungeon just to bring him an extra portion of supper, waiting until he finished eating to take the dishes back, to ensure they were never caught. Jon turns back to glance at where Agatha had once stood, knowing there was little he could do to repay the kindness that woman had shown Rickon, and most likely Sansa when she too had been a captor here. "She didn't come last night and I was worried." Jon smiles again and ruffles the boy's hair, rising back up to his full height.

"There is nothing you must ever worry about again." Jon says softly, peering down into the boy's blue eyes, ones that are shaped as Sansa's are, but not quite the same shade of color. "We're going to be a family again." Rickon holds fast to his gaze and after several long, silent moments, he nods.

[ x x x ]

She's never rode faster in all of her life.

Urging her horse on, Sansa rides through the gates of Winterfell with Tormund close behind. In the courtyard stands various people and she can hear their gasps and shouts as she brings her mare to a stop. But she cannot stop for them, she cannot speak to them. Not yet. And though people cry out their joy for her, she runs past them all, skirts clutched in her fists as she goes up the stone steps and pushes past the double doors to rush inside.

"In there."

Sansa turns to her right at the sound of the voice, surprised to see Agatha standing there, the old maid she's known since her birth. "In the great hall," she points down the corridor to the left, where the room is housed. "They're waiting for you, my lady." In the coming days, she would learn to call the young woman by her true title but for now, she can't help but to call her the one she's always known her as. "Welcome home, Lady Stark." The redhead smiles and then she's gone, dashing off down the hall, disappearing through the doors to the great hall only a moment later. Agatha smiles and takes to the stairs behind her, where upstairs maids have already begun to clean and change the lord's rooms, now to certainly be called the queen's rooms.

The doors to the great hall feel heavier than she recalls, but she pushes them open and steps inside, swallowing down the lump of emotions rising into her throat. There, settled just before the hearth, wrapped in a blanket and spooning soup into his mouth, is Rickon. The little boy raises his face, as does Jon who sits beside him, blue eyes widening at the sight of her standing there. "Rickon..." She whispers her little brother's name, tears already beginning their descent down her cheeks as she takes a single step closer to where he sits. Rickon is rising up then, setting his soup aside, the blanket falling from his shoulders to the floor. He has grown tall, his face lost of its childlike plumpness and she's stricken by the resemblance to herself in him. To their mother. Something between a sob and laugh escapes her as he rushes into her arms and she sinks to the floor with him wrapped in her embrace. And she might never let him go, in truth.

Jon watches the scene between sister and brother, smiling, yet again choked up on his own emotion. It was as Agatha had said, the Starks had come back to Winterfell, and they would never leave again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's another Stark reunion in Winterfell and Daenerys Targaryen arrives North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everyone for your continued support on this fic. reading your comments here fuel me to keep going. i appreciate every comment & kudos. even if i dont respond to them all, know i see each and every comment & truly, truly appreciate the nice words!

Watching Jon retake the North was enough for those who had yet to offer their support; the sons and daughters of remaining Northern houses- Umber, Manderly, and the like- they flocked back to Winterfell to beg on their knees for forgiveness of their father's sins. Given of course, for beyond the sheer fact that they would need all the support they could get in the coming battles, Jon could not bring himself to punish a son for his father's crime. He supposes it's only a matter of time before the declaration for his claim to the Iron Throne will be made.

"Dorne promises support." It's Sansa's voice cutting in, bringing him back from the depth of his own thoughts. They sit together in her solar, or perhaps it belongs to them both, considering the amount of time they spend together inside. She sits behind the large oak desk, dozens of scrolls and letters scattered across the top, some not even yet open. "You know how they hate the Lannister's." She smirks, blue eyes lifting from the letter as she tosses it down among all the others. "But they will ask for something in return." In the few weeks since they had reclaimed Winterfell as theirs, she's stepped into her role as Queen in the North as if she had truly been born for it. It's a role that suits her far better than any other one ever could. "With winter coming, we have little to offer them right now." She sighs, shaking her head as she reaches for another of the scrolls, this one still yet to have been opened.

He crosses the room and settles onto the edge of the desk as she leans back in her chair, red hair a stark contrast to the black wool gown she wears. Before he can speak, her features are twisting in dislike, blue eyes narrowing as she scans the letter she reads. "What is it?" He asks, a cold sense of dread washing over him. After all they've gone through, he can't think about more problems already arising.

"It's from Tyrion." She answers, but she does not pull her gaze from the letter.

"Lannister?" He asks as if she could even mean another man of the name, his voice full of the surprise he feels. She looks up then and nods, handing him the letter that she holds. Blinking, he turns his gaze down and reads the few lines of script written along the parchment.

_Lady Stark,  
I'm certain you're surprised to see a letter from me, but I hope this finds you in good health. The rumors of your disappearance and death circulated, even here across the Narrow Sea, and I was not certain I'd hear your name spoken again. It has been told that you and Jon have reclaimed Winterfell in the name of House Stark and they call you their queen. Though my alliance is with another queen, I commend you for your strength and ability to take back what always belonged to you._

_Surely you must wonder why I am writing you, it is on behalf of Daenerys Targaryen, the true heir to the Seven Kingdoms, and thus the one who should sit upon the Iron Throne, not my sister. I'm sure you wish to see her off the throne as much as anyone._

_We have heard the rumors of your half brother's birth, that he is Targaryen born. Daenerys does not wish to fight for the throne with her own blood, but she will, and I am giving you this warning now: do not fight her. My queen is a ruthless one and she will stop at nothing to claim what is hers. Stand with her and take the Iron Throne in the name of House Targaryen. Jon, if truly of her bloodline, will be rewarded for his alliance, as well as the North._

_I write to you in hopes there need be no war between our two sides, we have a common enemy in Cersei and thus a common goal. We have arrived in Dragonstone, the old seat for House Targaryen. Write to me here with your answer._

_Best regards, Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen._

Jon looks up from the letter to meet her gaze, though she looks lost in thought. "Hand of the Queen? For Daenerys Targaryen?" He speaks in disbelief, recalling the Lannister imp from those days so many years ago, from before they had ever left Winterfell. "Of all the people..." He goes on with a shake of his head, tossing the letter to join the others she's set aside. "What do you think of it? You know him better than I do."

Sansa sighs, shrugging her shoulders as she leans forward, elbows propping her up on the desk as she lowers her cheek into her palm. "Tyrion is no different than the rest of them, kind to me as he was. He looks to serve himself, as most men do." She sighs again, raising her face from her hand, stretching her arms across the desk. "I think we must talk with the lords about it, before we do anything." Jon nods, knowing this was not a choice they could make on their own. "But..." She trails off as she turns her gaze back to him. "He is right- if we don't play this out right, we will have two wars to fight for the Iron Throne." Jon nods, knowing she's right.

Though she opens her mouth to speak on, she's cut off by the door swinging open and in comes Rickon, carrying Robb who is giggling and babbling, one little fist extended up into the air. In the few weeks since their taking of Winterfell, Rickon has fallen quite hard for his little nephew. Although the initial realization that Jon was not his brother by blood was hard for him to understand and accept, he has come to learn that brotherhood isn't all about the blood they share. Sansa smiles as her little brother approaches where they sit, the worries of the realm forgotten as she leans in to brush a curl from her son's forehead. "Look Sansa," Rickon says excitedly as he passes the baby into her arms, but so he faces forward to still look at him rather than his mother. "Where's Robb?" He coos as he slides his hands over his face and then pulls them back with a quick movement. "There he is!" He cries and at once Robb is full of giggles, his gummy smile bringing a chuckle from both adults as they watch the scene unfold.

Her family, though once broken and pulled apart, was slowly coming back together. It was only a matter of time before they found Bran and Arya, until they were all together again. And she would look forward to that day until it came.

[ x x x ]

In the days that follow the letter arriving from Dragonstone, Sansa wrestles with the choice she knows that they must ultimately make. She can't quite explain it, but she doesn't trust Daenerys Targaryen- something tells her that this dragon queen will bring with her destruction, not salvation, and in the end they will face a war far bigger than the one with Cersei Lannister. It's another gamble, the idea that runs through her mind every time she's faced with the thought, a gamble far bigger than any of the others they've made up until now... But she knows, there's no fighting the power of a dragon, especially when there was three of them.

Three days after the letter arrived, the Northern lords are assembled in Winterfell's great hall. Sansa and Jon sit side by side at the head table, looking out into the sea of faces staring back at them. "Thank you for coming on such short notice," Jon is the first to speak, as he so usually is. Though she is queen, Jon is her voice, his ability to rally men to his side uncanny. She admires his ability to boost the confidence of even the lowest man, his ability to fill hearts with hope, with faith in doing the right thing. "The queen has received a letter from Tyrion Lannister." A murmur rises up among the lords- there is little trust in the imp, as there is little trust in any Lannister. "He writes on behalf of Daenerys Targaryen." The voices fall silent and he watches as shock registers on nearly every face in the room. "They sit in Dragonstone as we speak, making plans to sail for Westeros so Daenerys may lay claim to the Iron Throne."

"To claim a throne that does not belong to her?" Lord Royce speaks first from where he sits beside Brienne of Tarth, a few lords nodding in assent around him. "She is not the rightful heir, as she must have heard by now."

"Aye, she's heard," Jon goes on, rising up to his feet, sweeping around to the front of the table they sit behind. "She offers peace if we support her claim to the throne."

"Or so says the imp," Howland Reed says, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. "Can such a promise be trusted?" There is little love for the Targaryen name, Jon knows this as well as any man, especially there among the Northmen. They have not yet forgotten what happened to the Stark men in King's Landing so many years ago. And though they support Jon, it is only because of the love they had for him to begin with, because of the Stark blood that still yet runs through his veins. They consider him far more Stark than Targaryen and he supposes he is quite thankful for that.

"Probably not," it's Sansa who speaks now and all eyes turn to their queen, including Jon's, who shifts where he stands to focus on her. They have discussed at length what they plan to do and they can only hope the Northern lords trust in them enough to go along with it. "But we think we should offer our support to her, at least for the time being." A heavy silence falls, the gazes staring back at her now narrowed, their shock outweighing the anger they surely must feel at her words.

"You wish for us to align ourselves with a Targaryen?" Lord Manderly spits, though he shoots Jon an apologetic sort of look, who shrugs as if it means little to him. "And then what? We're to help her reclaim the throne that belongs to Lord Snow?"

"Not entirely," again it's Sansa speaking, hands folding together atop the table she still sits behind. "We cannot fight a war against three dragons." She goes on, blue eyes sweeping across the room, taking in the sight of every face that stares back at her. "But we can offer her support and gain her trust. From there we can determine what kind of threat she really is to us."

Silence descends once again and after several moments, Jon speaks again. "We will make no decision that you all don't agree with." He speaks honestly, recounting the words he and Sansa had discussed only the night before. "If you don't think it wise, then we will not invite her here, we will not go along with our plan. But..." He trails off, turning so he might look at Sansa across his shoulder. "The queen is right, we cannot fight a war against Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons."

"As I've told you before, you have House Mormont's support in all that you do, Jon Snow." Lyanna Mormont cuts in with a sharp nod of her head. It takes but a moment more for other heads to nod, for voices of assent to fill the room.

"We trust your judgment." Lord Umber speaks, another child that's been put into the place as head of his house. Beside him, Lady Karstark sits, nodding her head in agreement. In the end, all of the lords come to agree with the terms they've spoken of. And so when they've been fed and most have set out to return to their own houses, Sansa pens her letter to Tyrion, knowing that there would be a long journey ahead. For all of them.

[ x x x ]

"A letter, my lord."

It's Varys that hands him the letter, having come into his chamber just a moment before, not bothering to offer the courtsey of a knock. They have known one another so long now, he doesn't mind all that much. Not that Varys would care if he did. Tyrion glances at the scroll now in hand, the Stark seal the one he's been waiting to see. He breaks it open and unrolls the scroll to reveal the neat, slanted script thats written across the parchment. "She invites us to Winterfell to discuss terms of a potential alliance." He's shocked by the words written, he had not thought Sansa Stark to be so easily swayed. But then again... He supposes she's never faced a foe with a trio of dragons at her beck and call. Though, something tells Tyrion if there was anyone to ever oppose his queen, it would be her.

"And you think she means it?" Varys asks, coming around to stand at his back, hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe. "You know what the whispers say..." Even here in Dragonstone, the whispers of Westeros reach him. "That the North and Dorne both support Jon Snow as the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. That the Iron Islands will come behind him, too, thanks to Theon Greyjoy." They know the people of King's Landing would not so readily accept a Targaryen ruler- after decades of violence, they would look to the man who had taken back the North with little bloodshed. They would look to the Northern girl they knew once as their future queen, bethrothed at one time to their golden prince Joffrey. The peasantry would flock to Jon Snow and Sansa Stark long before they would ever stand with a Targaryen.

"You sound as if you think we should stand behind a different queen." Tyrion sighs, tossing the letter down onto the desktop as he reaches for his goblet of wine, draining it in a single gulp. "I have no choice but to believe her," he says then, pouring himself another goblet full. "It looks as if we're to head North."

[ x x x ]

Sansa spends her days ensuring that Winterfell is prepared to welcome the dragon queen and her army of Dothraki, not to mention her three dragons. It's been nearly a month since Tyrion's response had come to assure her that Daenerys sought peace and that they would make haste to arrive at Winterfell before winter came. The winter winds have begun to blow and most certainly, winter was upon them, and so she knows it is only a matter of time before Daenerys Targryen arrived on their shore.

It's a rare moment where she's not working and instead, she's settled into Robb's chambers, the baby tucked into her arms as he sleeps. Outside in the courtyard, despite the flurries of snow that fall from the cloudy skies, Jon spars with Rickon, teaching the boy to use a sword as Ned Stark had once taught him and Robb when they were Rickon's age. She can hear every clash of the wooden swords they use in place of steel and the occassional gasp from a crowd that must be gathered around. For a moment, it's as if they were back to their happy, carefree days of childhood.

She wishes things never have to change, but she knows yet another war looms ahead and they must be ready for it's arrival.

_Knock, knock._

"Come in," she softly calls and it's Lord Royce there, stepping inside the the room to come and stand before her. "Have you heard word from White Harbor?" She asks, thinking that it must be Daenerys he comes to speak to her of. But, to her surprise, he shakes his head.

"There's a rider... At the gate." He says instead and she cannot say why, but a lump rises to her throat. Something tells her she must greet this rider herself. And so she rises up to place her son carefully into his cradle and she follows Lord Royce from the room and down the halls until she takes to the stairs, heading down into the main corridor and then out the double doors into the courtyard.

"Sansa!" It's Rickon's voice calling out to her from the far side of the courtyard, where he and Jon are still sparring. "Come watch!" He shouts, waving his wooden sword high into the air. A laugh escapes her and she raises her hand to wave back to him, though she turns and heads instead for the gates, which as she approaches she raises her hand to the guard in the tower, giving him the go ahead to allow the gates to be opened. There, waiting to come through, was a single horse drawn sled, though a somewhat wild looking brunette walks alongside it. By now, Jon and Rickon, along with several others, have begun to approach where she stands, watching as the sled comes through the now open gates.

Her heart has begun to race, faster and faster, her breath catching in her throat as the person settled into the sled comes into her view. "Hello, Sansa." Bran says in a strange, stoic sort of voice, but his eyes... Those are the eyes of the little brother she knew from childhood. She chokes on a sob and she rushes towards the sled, climbing into the back of it so she can throw her arms around him. "Though I suppose I am to call you _your grace_ now," his voice is at her ear and she lets out a laugh, only hugging him tighter. When she wills herself to let him go, it's so she might stare at him, taking in the sight of him, grown nearly into a man. If he were to stand, she knows he would stand taller than even she. "There's much for us to discuss." Bran says in that same strange voice, a voice she doesn't know. But he's home, so she doesn't care about what he sounds like or even how he looks. She only cares that he's home.

He's home and so is another piece of her heart.

[ x x x ]

It's late into the night, but they sit up in the rooms they've had prepared for Bran to stay in, the rooms that once belonged to him as a child. Bran and Jon sit before the hearth, quiet as Sansa tucks the blankets over Rickon and Robb who both sleep peacefully in the bed that was meant to be Bran's. She can't help but to smile as she brushes a curl from Rickon's forehead, leaning over to kiss both boys on the tops of their heads before she crosses the room to settle into the chair she'd only just vacated moments before. "He looks just like you," Bran says to Jon, gesturing towards the sleeping pair, meaning of course the baby that sleeps beside his youngest uncle. "Though he will be taller than you." Sansa can't help but to spare a laugh at Jon's expense, but even he must chuckle at the comment.

"Have you... Seen him?" Sansa asks after a moment, turning her gaze towards her younger brother. In the last several hours, he's spoken to them of many things, including his visions and his role as the Three Eyed Raven. Perhaps it's wrong of her to ask, but to know a glimpse of her son's future... Even just the smallest inkling that he will be happy. That everything they're doing is going to be worth it in the end. Bran's eyes swerve from the bed and instead fall onto her, holding steady for a long moment before he gives a single nod. Something like relief rushes through her and she lets out the breath she's been holding, sinking back into her chair.

"I've seen them all," Bran admits after a moment, glancing from one face to the other. He's seen the fates of all their children, though the rest have yet to come. Someday, Winterfell would be full of the laughter of children, much as it had once been when they had all been children within the walls. "But it's a long road ahead."

Jon casts a quick glance towards Sansa, reaching out a hand to tenderly touch hers. At the touch, she startles, but her lips curve with a smile as she turns to face him for just a moment. "Daenerys will be here any day." Jon says when his gaze has settled back onto Bran's, who nods, indicating he already knew this. Jon wonders what else his little brother knows, what else he's keeping to himself. But he knows he must trust him, just as Sansa once trusted him; it was faith in each other, faith in knowing that there was always one person who would keep you safe no matter what. "We must be ready."

"You will be." Bran says, though he turns his gaze to Sansa as he speaks. Though he cannot say it aloud, he knows it will be her that in the end, saves them from the destruction that Daenerys Targaryen brings. He didn't have to tell her what would come because she would never waver, she would never back down from doing what she thought was right. Bran knows that his sister would stop at nothing to protect her home and her family, though she might not know it yet, there was nothing Sansa would not do in the future to protect both her son and Jon.

And that alone makes her the most dangerous player of them all.

[ x x x ]

It's the next morning when a rider comes through the gates with the alert that Daenerys Targaryen had arrived in White Harbor. But by the time the rider came, the line of soldiers had already been spotted as they made their way from the docks to Winterfell. Sansa stands on the battlements, watching as in the distance, the soldiers make their way down the road that will lead them through her gates.

She's still yet standing there when the dragons come, screeching and belching flames as they fly overhead. "Sansa." It's Jon. She turns to face him where he stands just an arm's length away, his Stark features a little more solemn than usual. "It's time." Sansa nods, silent as she steps closer to him, slipping into his arms a moment later. He holds onto her for several long moments until neither of them can ignore it no longer.

Daenerys Targaryen has arrived in Winterfell.

[ x x x ]

The mother of dragons is not all that Sansa expected her to be.

She is soft and small, with wide violet eyes and silvery hair that she wears in the most elaborate of braids. But she strides into the hall with a confidence that reeks of arrogance and though she smiles prettily enough, Sansa can see right through her. Suddenly, it's Lord Baelish's voice that floats through her thoughts; everyone is your enemy, everyone is your friend. For an instance, she's in another place entirely, a place full of ash and dust, something small and sharp in her hand... Sansa blinks and the vision is gone, but Daenerys still yet stands there, for she and her small entourage have approached the head table where Sansa sits with Jon and Bran to her either side, proof that House Stark was far from dead. "Welcome to Winterfell," Sansa speaks carefully, slowly, not a single soul in the room rising for this self proclaimed queen.

And at once, Sansa see's that she was right to think her arrogant, for those violet eyes dart around the room that she finds to be empty aside from the three that sit in front of her. Beside her a woman with eyes of such a striking shade of gold that Sansa is momentairly taken aback, but the surprise fades when she opens her mouth to speak. "You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, Queen of the Andals and the First Men... Protector of the Seven Kingdoms." There comes a long pause and for a moment, Sansa thinks her to be finished speaking.

She isn't.

"The Mother of Dragons, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt," the woman says this last title as if it's a warning. Sansa exchanges a quick glance with Jon, but her attention returns to the woman with golden eyes as she still yet continues to speak. "The breaker of chains." Another silence falls and it's only then that Sansa realizes the woman has finally finished rattling off the titles and names this so called queen has given to herself.

"Ah, so you are finished," Sansa says with a tilt of her head, though her rosy lips are smiling. Jon has never seen this look upon her face before but it is one she's worn countless times in countless places for countless people. "I am Sansa Stark, Queen in the North. I thank you for traveling so far. I hope the seas were not so rough."

"They were calm, my lady, thank you." Daenerys speaks for the first time, her tone and smile matching with the woman that sits before her. She dares, in the privacy of this room, speak as if she's not heard Sansa's introduction.

"Pardon, your grace, but I am not just a lady." Sansa interrupts before the Targaryen woman can continue. "I am a queen, much like yourself." Her smile is dangerous as she folds her hands over the top of the table. "Chosen by my people."

"Forgive me, I didn't receive a formal education like you must have but if I remember correctly there's not been a King in the North since Torrhen Stark bent the knee to my ancestor Aegon Targaryen..." Daenerys speaks again, blinking those violet eyes, her gaze never once wavering as she stares down at Sansa where she sits. "In exchange for the lives of the Northmen he swore an oath to my house in perpetuity." She goes on, her smile smug as she turns to a man standing just behind her, a man Sansa had not noticed until that very moment. "Tell me, what does perpetuity mean again, Lord Tyrion?"

"It means forever, your grace." Tyrion Lannister speaks, stepping up to stand beside the queen he's promised his loyalty to. Looking out at the table of Stark's, he's reminded quite of the old days when Ned and Catelyn Stark had once sat there.

"It means forever," Daenerys grins as she turns back to face Sansa. "So I assume, my lady, you've invited me here to bend the knee. You wrote of peace, of an alliance, yet calling yourself Queen in the North puts you into open rebellion against me. Against your rightful queen." Her gaze narrows, sharpening like steel, but unlike many before her, Sansa Stark does not bend, does not break. Rather, those icy blue eyes of hers darken, not an ounce of fear in their gaze as she squares her shoulders.

"I have no intention of bending the knee." Sansa replies, watching as Daenery's nostrils flare, her mouth opening and closing as if she's not quite certain what she's to say next. Sansa imagines this is a woman who rarely hears the word no, who rarely does not get as she wants. "It is true, I spoke of an alliance, but I never once spoke of bending to your rule."

"That is unfortunate," Daenerys quips, shooting the imp beside her a glare, as if this meeting not going her way is entirely his fault. "Unfortunate that you should invite me all this way only to break faith with House Targaryen."

At these words, Sansa can't stop the chuckle that escapes her. "My apologies, I only laugh for what faith in House Targaryen do I have?" She sobers, those blue eyes once again falling upon the woman before her. "Your father burned my grandfather alive, he burned my uncle alive. He'd have burned the entire Seven Kingdoms alive, had he not been stopped."

"My father was an evil man," Daenerys breaks in and for the first time since she walked into the hall, Sansa feels a bit of humanity from her. "On behalf of House Targaryen, I ask your forgiveness for my father's crimes against your family. And I ask that you not hold a daughter accountable for her father's sins." The violet gaze is softer now, somewhat sad, and Sansa swallows, recalling how Jon had once said those same words to her in regards to the families of the rebellious lords that now served her and House Stark once again. "The centuries of peace with a Targaryen on the Iron Throne and a Stark as Warden in the North were the best Westeros has ever seen... I am the last Targaryen-"

"You are not."

All eyes swivel then, turning to Bran who has spoken for the first time since the meeting began. "Jon is your nephew and therefore, the last remaining male heir of your House. He is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne." He speaks calmly, matter-of-factly, his expression never changing even as his eyes meet the mother of dragon's.

Daenerys regards him for several long moments before a sigh escapes her. "I have heard such a thing.... But how I am to know for certain that you are my brother's son?" She turns her gaze to Jon then, noting his lack of Targaryen looks, wondering just how any son of her family could escape the Targaryen genes. "It is as I bid Tyrion to write, if you are my kin, I do not wish to fight with you." Something tells Sansa that this is a lie, that this woman would topple any person, any kingdom, if it meant she got her way. Once again Daenerys is looking at her and she holds her head up high, knowing that in the end, no matter what it cost her, she would never bend. Not ever.

"Promise Northern independence and I will abandon my claim to the throne." Jon speaks and Daenerys turns her gaze from Sansa to him. "Swear that oath and I will not fight you for the remaining Six Kingdoms." His dark eyes hold fast to violet and the silence in the room is thick, heavy. "You needn't decide it now," he goes on, turning to Sansa who smiles fondly upon him when their gazes meet. "The queen has prepared rooms for your stay, after all." His purposeful use of queen strikes Daenerys and she shifts her gaze back to Sansa, who nods, her smile for her instead. It is a charming smile, even Dany must admit.

"I will think about your proposition most carefully," Daenerys finally speaks, though those around her look truly surprised by her response, as if even they expected her to turn on her heel and storm from the room. "I cannot promise what my answer will be."

"You are welcome to stay, until then," Sansa speaks, knowing that despite it all, she must earn this woman's trust. She must make her think that in the end, the North will be on her side in her fight for the throne. "I will have someone show you to your rooms," she gestures towards Brienne who stands in the corner of the room, who then ducks out to find Agatha who has been tireleslly working to ensure the rooms are well prepared for this queen and her group.

As Daenerys is led from the room, Sansa sinks back into her chair, suddenly drained of her energy. Beside her, Jon turns to face her, a hand falling into place against her thigh, his skin warm against hers despite the layers of clothes between them. "That went well," he says and she lifts her face to him, grinning in spite of herself. "You know what we must do next." He goes on and she nods; of course does. Jon smiles and he leans in, capturing her mouth with his for a quick kiss.

That alone gives her the strength to rise up, ready to meet whatever comes next. 

[ x x x ]

"Do you believe him? Do you believe that he is my brother's son?"

Daenerys rounds on him the moment the door has closed, leaving them alone in her antechamber. Sansa Stark turns out to be a generous host, offering the warmest, best wing of Winterfell to Daenerys and her group. Tyrion finds himself housed in rooms far nicer than the ones he stayed in on his last visit to Winterfell. "Well, your grace..." Tyrion begins, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, uncertain as she is in the truth of Jon's birth. "If I may speak freely..."

His queen regards him for a moment before she nods, sinking into a chair nearest the hearth. "You may," she says, eager to hear what her Hand has to say in this situation. Tyrion Lannister was a smart man, though a heavy drinker, he's willing to make choices that others cannot. She trusts his judgment above all others, save for perhaps Missandei or Jorah.

"If you remember, I told you once that I was married to Sansa when she was but a girl." Daenerys nods, recalling the conversation from just a few months before, when the rumors of the wolves of Winterfell came to them in Dragonstone. "She is fiercely loyal to her family, to her House. To the North. She does not forget the wrongs done against her nor her family." Again, Daenerys nods, for does she not know the same feeling? "When she escaped King's Landing, she was forced to marry again, but I have heard the rumors of what she endured here in her own home at the hands of her husband, Ramsay Bolton." That too had been a subject of their conversation and back then, Daenerys had felt a spark of pity for the woman- yet another thing they shared was the abuse at hands of men who thought themselves above them. But now that she's met the young woman- she feels little else but contempt. It seemed as if Sansa Stark was going out of her way to defy her.

"And what does any of this have to do with Jon Snow being my nephew or not?"

Tyrion stands at the table beside where she sits and he pours two goblets of wine, passing the first one to Daenerys, who accepts and sips at the drink, surprised by the sweetness of it. "I only mean to give you some insight to who she is, your grace," Tyrion says when he's gulped down a mouthful of the wine himself. "A noble born girl, married twice against her will, one of those leading to truly terrible repercussions." He takes to the chair across from his queen, legs aching from the long hours they had spent both at sea and on land. "Do you think a woman raised in a world such as this one would so willingly marry a man- a man she thinks to be her brother, albeit bastard born?" Westeros did not view incest as the Targaryen's did and certainly a girl from House Stark would not lay nor marry a man she calls her brother. "It is true, those who could speak the truth of Jon's birth are no longer here to speak for themselves, we have but a High Septon's journal... But, your grace, if I know Sansa Stark like I think I do, she would never marry a man she calls brother. That itself is enough proof for me."

A silence descends and for a moment, Daenerys can only take another sip of her wine, thinking about all of the things Tyrion has just said to her. "I think you're right," she finally says a few minutes later, raising her gaze from the fire to him, violet eyes finding green. "So what of Jon Snow's promise to deny his place as the rightful heir, if only for Northern independence?"

"That is your choice to make, your grace," Tyrion begins, pausing only to take another sip of his wine. "But I have known Jon Snow to be a man of his word, unbelievably honorable, like the man who raised him."

Again there comes silence, but it is quicker to flee as Daenerys shifts in her chair to fully face him, the firelight casting her into a golden glow. "And would the North stand behind him, otherwise?" She asks, slowly, carefully, the only question that truly matters. Tyrion holds to her gaze a moment longer before he gives a single, solemn nod. The North would stand behind Jon and only Jon, especially now that they call Sansa their queen. The Seven Kingdoms would find peace in a world with an alliance such as theirs- a half Targaryen, half Stark prince and his already beloved Stark bride. Tyrion doesn't have the heart to tell his queen that even those in King's Landing would stand behind Jon Snow before they ever stood behind her. "Then I suppose I already know what I must do." She says softly, barely audible, a statement more to herself than to Tyrion.

A promise of peace... Of Northern independence... It would all be worth it, if only to get her to where she needed to be. And then when the Irone Throne was the chair she sat upon, she would give Sansa Stark and the North exactly what they deserved. If they were not for her, then they were against her.

And just like that, her mind is made up.


End file.
